


The Rising Tide

by tsukinobara



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Labor Organizing, M/M, Too many characters for one comment field, neighborhood theaters, well steampunkish anyway, why yes you can see my politics in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25656019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinobara/pseuds/tsukinobara
Summary: Jared and Jensen live in the big city at the dawn of the new century. Jensen manages a run-down theater with a generous but strong-willed owner, structural issues, and the occasional equipment malfunction. Jared works in a mill producing heavy-duty canvas for the airships being built outside the city. He's trying to convince his fellow millworkers to strike for better conditions, better hours, and better pay, despite the cops' tendency to break strikes up with violence and jail. But if that one works, he has a bigger idea – a city-wide general strike, involving enough people in enough industries stopping enough work to make the owners take notice and finally meet the workers' demands.Or, the one in which Jensen runs a neighborhood theater, Jared is organizing millworkers, and everything looks vaguely late steampunk.
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17
Collections: Supernatural and J2 Big Bang 2020





	The Rising Tide

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for blatant pro-labor sentiment, vague understanding of the inner workings of theaters, and occasional Chad. The sit-down strike is based on a real thing, but I made everything else up.
> 
> beelikej made the art - see her process (I love the process posts, personally) and give her some love [here](https://beelikej.livejournal.com/560489.html)!

Mendeley is a big city with much to offer – factories to employ the low-skilled, wards full of men and women to support artisans and craftspeople, theaters and concert halls to entertain the populace. The governing Council of Representatives is open to anyone with the money and energy to mount a campaign and the will to keep their seat in the Council Hall. There are steam trams criss-crossing the city, trains speeding in and out of the central station, a busy port, and just beyond the crowded buildings, landing fields for airships great and small.

Jared works in a textile mill that weaves, cuts, and rolls the giant sheets of canvas that will eventually end up as the skins and sails of those airships. It's the best work he could get when he first arrived in the city from the hinterlands, without skills or connections, but it pays little, and because he's tired of the way he and his fellow millworkers are treated, he's been thinking about the collective will of the people a lot lately. He's been thinking about collective action, about the best way to convince his colleagues that they have power all together, about the things they need to do to get the mill owner to raise their wages, cut back on the punishing hours they're made to work, and perform some desperately-needed maintenance on the giant looms and cutting machines.

Jared has been talking to people during their breaks, after hours, and sometimes during their shifts, if no floor managers are around. He and Misha, one of the men on his line, have held what feels like a lot of secret meetings to try and convince people to organize and strike. They've gotten pushback – any time workers in Mendeley try to strike on any scale, the Council just sends the police to break it up, beat people up, and throw everyone in jail. No one wants to lose their job, and they even less want to be blacklisted out of employment at all.

But Jared has heard (and prompted) enough grumbling and complaining and arguing in his own ward to know that while people might be worried about their ability to make rent and put food on the table, they're also invested in making a better life for themselves and their families, and how better to do that than to figure out a way to hold the bosses' feet to the fire and demand more?

He's sure he's making progress in convincing the millworkers. He can be persuasive when he wants to, and if he feels strongly enough about something – and he feels strongly about this – he can't stop thinking about it and won't shut up about it until something is done. He and Misha both agree they're close to getting enough people to act. They just need a catalyst.

Unfortunately that catalyst is a loom losing its integrity and injuring one of the men on Jared's floor so severely that the rest of the man's line comes to a rattling halt while his neighbors try to help him and a couple of managers discuss the best way to get him off the floor and everyone else back to work.

News spreads through the mill, carried down the lines and across the floors by men hauling crates and scrap. Timothy, the injured laborer, is a good worker and well-liked, and rumor about what actually happened trails after the news like smoke following fire. Floor managers yell at everyone to quit gossiping and keep their eyes on their own looms.

Jared walks out with Misha and Matt after their shift. Matt tells them that Timothy was scalded by hot steam and knocked out by the shuttle when one of the wheels that turns his loom somehow blew off, venting steam and knocking the whole thing out of whack. The shuttles are large and heavy, made to withstand being flung back and forth to weave the canvas with impressive speed. They, and the thick cotton cord they pull, can take your hand off if you're not paying attention.

“I overheard one of the managers say he broke some bones, too,” Matt adds in an undertone, as if even the news about someone's injuries is enough to cause other men to be hurt. “They had some guys take him to a hospital.”

“You know which one?” Jared asks. “We should go see his wife.”

“Kurt said he'd tell her. They're neighbors, you know?”

“Well, shit.”

“This is the fourth injury this month,” Misha comments. “Not counting your friend knocking over one of those wheeled crates.”

Three days ago Chad tipped a wheeled crate of replacement shuttles while he was pushing it down the line, claiming later that the wheels caught on the uneven floor. Heavy shuttles landed on his foot, but while he's still complaining about how much it hurts, he was lucky to have been wearing heavy boots. Jared has his own opinion of what Chad was doing – not paying attention – and how badly Chad is hurt – not as much as he claims – and thinks he should stop whining so that when he actually does injure himself, people will believe him.

Four injuries so far is about average, though. It's more men than are injured at the Augustus Theater, which Jared's boyfriend manages, even though theater work is not as a rule particularly dangerous. By the end of the month Jared predicts they'll have nine or ten men hurt, although probably none of them will be injured enough to be taken out of work for long.

The next day Kurt brings word about Timothy – steam burns, a concussion, a gash on his forehead where the shuttle hit him, and a broken pelvis. The flywheel evidently caught him in the hip when it blew off, before spinning away across the floor.

“I've started a collection,” Kurt tells the other workers, “for the hospital bill and to take care of his family.”

Timothy would have gone to a public hospital. There are several in the city, funded by taxes and sometimes private donations, with a mandate to care for the city's poor. Private hospitals provide much better, more thorough care, but they charge accordingly, and in any case, no one who looks like a working man or woman is going to be allowed past the front door. And a public hospital, even with its charge to take everyone, will still bill you for your care.

“Do you know anything about his family?” Misha asks during lunch. He and Jared have already contributed some coins, and when Jared got an opportunity to walk down his line he tried to convince everyone else to as well. “He's a good man but I know almost nothing about him.”

“He has two kids,” Jared says. “I think one's a girl but I don't know about the other. His wife works in a china factory, painting teacups. A couple of guys on his line asked to be moved. I think they're nervous the other looms are going to fail the same way.”

Misha snorts into his sandwich.

“What?” Jared asks. He understands superstition, but he also understands that the giant looms they work on, and the steam-driven cutting and rolling machines on other floors, are old and not consistently maintained, and because the mill runs twenty hours a day, seven days a week – 140 hours out of 168 – there's a lot of wear and tear.

“They will fail. Maybe not catastrophically, but something will break. It will break, we'll get hurt.” He chews, swallows, leans in close. “We need to be better organized. We need to make ourselves heard.”

Meaning, _We need to strike._

“I know,” Jared says in an undertone. “We're meeting tomorrow night, right? We'll talk about when.”

The bell rings, signaling the end of their break and the start of the next one – the men get their lunch in shifts, so the floors are never still – and Jared goes back to his station thinking about how soon he and Misha can convince enough of their fellow workers to strike. He can't stop thinking about Timothy – steam burns are wicked, and a broken pelvis seems like the kind of thing that might consign a man to a chair for the rest of his life, or just a cane if he's lucky – but more importantly, he can't stop thinking about how many other men might be worrying about their health and safety and security, and how it could be priming them to take matters into their own hands and stand up for themselves and their own wellbeing.

What happened to Timothy was a tragedy that could have been avoided, if only the mill owner gave a shit about the men working the looms. Jared can use this opportunity to further convince his fellow workers that things won't get better unless they do something. He needs to be able to convince them that not only do they have to strike to get any concessions at all, but they have to do it soon.

_The Merits of Mr Marsden_ , a fun, silly little farce, opens in three days and Jensen is not ready. The sets aren't finished, one of the costumes has a giant scorchmark on the front of the skirt, Mr Marsden doesn't know all his lines, Mrs Marsden is still having trouble with her single pratfall, and now the spotlights – all two of them – don't seem to be working.

“Alex!” Jensen yells up at the catwalk.

“Lights are out, boss!” Alex yells down.

“I can see that! Can you tell me why?”

Unintelligible noises float down. Jensen sighs and heads backstage where Alona is complaining to Genevieve about the scorched dress amid the hammering and swearing that mark the construction of a new set.

It was Mr Morgan's idea to mount the farce, not Jensen's. Jensen would have preferred a light musical, something with song and dance numbers and simple sets. The last play they did was a retelling of an old myth set amid rolling farmlands. It required little in the way of complicated sets or props, and he's sure he could have found something that wasn't set entirely indoors and didn't need all new everything.

But Mr Morgan owns the theater, and if he wants the company to do a farce about a middle-class city man, and Jensen can't muster a convincing enough argument for something else, or hand Mr Morgan a different script, that's what they do.

Besides, the mythological retelling didn't do too well, and presenting someone or something that an audience can laugh at for a couple of hours is generally a safe bet. It helps that the main actors in this one can do comedy well.

“You have to fix this,” Alona is saying to Genevieve as Jensen stomps past them. She sounds more frustrated than angry, which Jensen can understand, but all the same, this is not Genevieve's main source of income and she shouldn't be responsible for someone else's attempts to clean and press the costumes.

Jensen climbs up the ladder to the catwalk. The catwalk hangs barely five feet down from the ceiling, but that's enough space for someone to work the spotlights and the rigging that occasionally allows them to swing something over the stage.

Fancy theaters have pneumatic or steam-powered rigs, so the crew can move sets, raise or lower curtains and drops, rotate spotlights, even elevate the stage with the flip of a lever or the spin of a wheel. There are a lot of interesting things you can do onstage if you have the money for the machinery. But the Augustus Theater is small and poor and has to rely on manpower to get anything done. The place is lucky to have spotlights, even if both of them are currently busted.

Alex is fiddling with one of them. Jensen knows the gas bill is paid, so unless there's something wrong with the gas line or the lamp itself, it should be on.

“I don't know, boss,” Alex says.

“Did you check the line? The valves? Are the tips clean?”

“Yeah. All of that. I don't want to take them apart but I can't figure out why they're not working.”

“Three days,” Jensen sighs.

“I know. I'll figure it out.”

“Ask Osric if you have too much trouble.” He should probably mention it to Mr Morgan, and hope that not only can the theater get someone to fix the spotlights in time, but that Mr Morgan is willing to pay for it out of his own pocket.

Well, they're doing a farce, not a melodrama or a historical, and Jensen doesn't design dramatic lighting for farces. They can live without the spotlights if they have to. In the old days theaters didn't even have spotlights, and the footlights were basically oil pots and open flames. A successful production was one in which no one's costume caught fire. Jensen supposes he should be thankful they have gas lamps now, with less chance of something – or someone - going up in flames. Although the way things are going, he won't be surprised if one of the spotlights falls and kills someone on opening night.

He creeps back along the catwalk and down the ladder. Alona and Genevieve are both gone, but the set is still going up. It will need to be painted after it's been constructed, but as long as that's done by opening night, the paint doesn't even have to be completely dry. He'll just have to make sure no one gets too close to it.

He's unsurprisingly still at the theater when Jared gets off his shift at the mill. Jensen lets himself be distracted only long enough to say hi and tell Jared to sit in the back row so he can make sure everyone is projecting enough. Alona is so close to getting the pratfall right, but Dick is still flubbing Mr Marsden's lines and Alona is clearly getting tired of prompting him.

“If you don't know all your lines by tomorrow I'm giving your role to Osric,” Jensen tells him.

“I could do a better job,” Alona mutters. “Put Osric in a wig and a dress and he can be Mrs Marsden.”

Osric is up on the catwalk looking at the spotlights, but Jensen can just picture his excited face at the prospect of getting a bigger part in the farce. It's not the worst idea Alona has ever had.

“ _Jared_ could do a better job,” Jensen says. “Get your shit together. Now do it again, from 'His horse bit the coachman'.”

They run through the scene again, and this time everyone remembers their lines, hits their marks, and makes both Jared and Osric laugh loud enough to be heard from the front of the auditorium. Jensen is relieved.

“I'd ask how your day was but I can probably guess,” Jared says later, after rehearsal has finally finished and Jensen has sent everyone home and locked up.

“I've had better,” Jensen says. “I meant it when I said you could do a better job than Dick. I don't know why this is so hard for him.”

“He has a lot going on at home?”

Jensen shrugs. “If he does, he hasn't said anything to me. Our spotlights are out too, and you can see the set isn't finished, and one of the dresses has a giant scorchmark right in the front. But we can actually work around that. Mrs Marsden doesn't have to change her clothes so many times. She's already going through pretty much the entire rack of costumes. I don't know what to do about the spots, though.”

“Do you want me to look at them?”

“Because you know so much about gas lamps?” Jensen grins. “The catwalk would probably collapse if you climbed on it. No, Alex and Osric are on it. We'll sort it out. In three days. Somehow.”

Three days later the sets are finished, although the paint is still a little tacky. One of the spotlights has been fixed, the other will probably have to be replaced, the scorched costume has been taken out of rotation, everyone has learned their lines to Jensen's satisfaction, and the theater is full for opening night. Jensen stands offstage, murmuring lines and stage directions, keeping half an eye on the catwalk where Alex is babying the one working spotlight, and trying to see into the audience to make sure everyone is laughing at the appropriate times. They are.

Jared didn't come, but Jensen isn't bothered. He knows sometimes the managers at the mill keep the workers late because they can, and sometimes Jared wants to go out with his coworkers after their shift, and sometimes he's just not interested in opening nights when there's a high possibility something will go wrong. Hopefully _The Merits of Mr Marsden_ will run for a while and Jared will have other chances to see it.

After the show the actors and crew congratulate each other on a play well done, change out of their costumes, lock up, and head to a pub to celebrate opening night. Alex tells Jensen that he doesn't think the theater completely sold out, but the box office did well. Jensen will count the money tomorrow. When he first started directing and managing, he'd count the opening night take during the show, after the box office closed, but he missed being able to watch the production from the wings. Who would feed actors their lines if they missed a cue? Who would make sure the right props were in the right places, and the sets were moved at the right times? Who would make sure the actors all hit their marks? Who would watch the audience for their reactions?

So now he locks up the money from ticket sales after opening night and counts it the next day, when he can concentrate.

Because opening night, especially a good opening night, is for celebrating, and if they're lucky someone who saw the show and enjoyed it will buy someone from the company a drink.

Tonight it's a steam tram operator who laughed so hard at Alona's one pratfall that he almost pissed himself. The pub is too crowded for her to duplicate it for him in her street clothes, but she thanks the man for his drink and makes him promise to come see the show again. Jensen accepts the tram operator's congratulations for a funny show, and doesn't mind that the man can't stand a round for the whole company. They all know the economic realities of their wards.

Jensen drinks just enough to put himself in a careless, lighthearted mood, and has to restrain himself from singing as he walks home with Danneel and Genevieve, a girl on each arm like a real ladies' man. The company can get themselves in and out of their own costumes and do their own hair and makeup, but Genevieve made time to sit backstage in case anyone needed a last-minute costume adjustment. She even tried to fix the dress with the scorchmark.

“Next time you'll give me the female lead,” Danneel says. “Alona was better than I expected but it's my turn.”

“We'll see,” Jensen says. He can't think about the next show until he can tell how the current show is doing.

“ _Marsden_ will probably run for months and months.” She sounds almost disappointed.

“That's good, though!” Genevieve says. “You want it to do well!”

“Yeah, but I want to be the star.”

“You will be,” Jensen says. They stop at a crossing to let a bunch of wagons pass, and he takes the opportunity to kiss her on the temple, through her hair.

Someone calls out “Two at once, you lucky bastard!” Genevieve and Danneel both laugh, and Jensen feels himself blush. He's never thought of either of the girls that way – his heart and all his other parts belong to Jared – but he wonders, in his half-drunk, expansive mood, what if he did? Would they want him? Would Jared mind? Would they even all fit in a bed?

He laughs to himself. What an absurd thought.

“What do you think?” Danneel is asking Genevieve, leaning around Jensen to make herself heard. “Would Jared share him?”

“We could ask,” Genevieve says, giggling. “Imagine all of us in that sagging bed. We'd break it.”

“We'd break _him_.” Danneel laughs, squeezes Jensen's arm, and tells him “We'll take your boyfriend too. It's not fair to make him watch.”

“Unless he wants to.”

“Oh, saints,” Jensen says, trying not to think about any of the scenarios the girls seem to be conjuring up, “you'll scare him off.”

“As long as we don't scare you off,” Danneel says, still laughing. “I hope he knows what a prize he has.”

“Oh, he knows,” Genevieve says. “Ask the neighbors, they'll tell you exactly how hard Jared proves himself.”

“ _Hard_.” Danneel dissolves into giggles, and the other two have to stop walking until she can compose herself.

Jensen finds himself chuckling too, not because he believes the girls would ever go through with any of their suggestions, but because they're having so much fun teasing him. He'll have to tell Jared when he gets home, just to spread the joy and give Jared a chance to tease him too.

He escorts Genevieve and Danneel to their door, kisses them both goodnight, and tells them he'll bring up their suggestions to his boyfriend and report back.

“You do that,” Genevieve says. “We'll have to use your bed, though. Ours is....” She waggles her hand, indicating her bedframe's shaky integrity.

“And we won't all fit on the sofa,” Danneel adds. “It's covered in clothes anyway.”

“I'll mention it,” Jensen says, knocking on their door to remind them they should go inside and take this conversation out of the hallway. No doubt someone with nothing better to do with their time is listening, late as it is, and he doesn't like being the subject of local gossip.

“Hard!” Danneel calls, as he walks back down the hall to the stairwell and his own floor.

Jared is sitting at the table reading when Jensen comes in. The lamp flickers on his face and his book and the scarred tabletop, and Jensen feels his heart swell with love and affection and not a little desire.

“Hey,” Jared says. He puts a strip of paper in his book to mark the place and flips it closed. “Opening night party?”

“Yeah.”

“Was it fun?”

“Always.”

“Are you drunk?”

“A little.”

“Do you want to go to bed?”

“Yeah.”

When they're undressed and under the blankets, Jared whispers “Do you want to fuck me?” in Jensen's ear, and the answer to that is of course “Yes”.

Everything feels dreamy and slow, maybe because of the beer, maybe because of the hour, maybe because of the leisurely way they kiss and touch each other. It seems as if this takes hours, but eventually Jensen drapes Jared's long legs over his shoulders and pushes into him. They're relatively quiet, trying to keep their breathing even and their moans soft, even trying not to make the bed creak too much. Jensen could lose himself here, deep in Jared's body, nothing in his head but the heat and scent of them, the quiet sounds they make, the easy way they move together. He shifts position, letting Jared's legs slide off his shoulders so he can hook his arms behind Jared's knees and lean down, lean in, rocking against Jared with steady, rolling thrusts.

This too seems to take hours, and Jensen would happily stay inside Jared until sunrise, making him pant and moan, shifting position and tempo to keep both of them hard and wanting, but likewise keeping them both from climax as long as possible. He doesn't know how long a man can go without coming, how long he could stay hard, how long he could keep Jared hard. Hours? Could they find out?

They probably can, but not now, not when Jared grabs Jensen's ass with both hands and begs to be touched, begs Jensen to come, to let him come. Jensen pushes himself up just enough, wraps his hand around Jared's straining cock, and pumps with hard, tight strokes until Jared cries out and spills over his hand. Jensen doesn't even wait for him to finish before letting himself go as well, groaning with his own release.

“Come to the opening night party next time,” Jensen says, when he can finally catch his breath.

“And fuck you in a back room?” Jared grins. They've done it before, once when the company had the opening night party in the theater. Jared dragged Jensen off to the men's tiny dressing room and bent him over the dressing table. The lamps were still lit and they watched themselves in the mirror, flushed and gasping and grinning, and Jensen was drunk enough and aroused enough that he didn't care.

There was another time, early in Jensen's tenure as theater director, when they went to a pub to celebrate, and Jared was so excited by Jensen's apparent success and so proud of him that they ended up in the alley out back, Jared on his knees and Jensen's cock in his mouth. At least Jensen had the presence of mind to wait until they got home to repay him.

“That too.” Jensen yawns. He's so tired. He rolls over, throws his arm across Jared's chest, and presses his face into Jared's neck. Jared smells like sweat and sex. “I like it when you're there.”

“Yeah?” Jared brushes a hand over his hair. “I do too.”

“I want this show to run for a long time, though. You'll come see it.”

“I did. I snuck in the back after it started.”

Jensen should probably be annoyed that Alex apparently let Jared sneak in, but he can't bring himself to care. He would have let Jared in for free anyway, as his guest.

“And?” he asks.

“I laughed a lot. It's good.”

“I'm glad.” Jensen yawns again, turns his head. As good as Jared smells, Jensen is finding it hard to breathe like this.

He can hear noises outside – deliverymen, late-night drunks, stray cats, who knows – but it's oddly soothing, especially with his head on Jared's shoulder and his arm across Jared's chest. The show went well. The theater was full, or as close as makes no difference. Jared is as hot as he ever was, as eager, as responsive. In this one minute, Jensen can honestly say that his life is good.

“What's the word?” Matt whispers as he passes Jared with a load of scraps. Jared can barely hear him over the banging and whirring of the machines.

“Next week,” he whispers back. “Tuesday. We all walk out at noon.”

“Chad said Thursday.”

“Misdirection. Misha thinks there's a spy.”

“How do - “

“Cohen! Padalecki!” the foreman yells. “Socialize on your own time!”

“Tuesday,” Jared repeats as Matt continues on.

In the ten minutes he has to eat his lunch he asks Misha if he has any idea who the spy is.

“Never trust the floor managers,” Misha says.

“That's not an answer,” Jared tells him. No floor managers have ever come to their meetings. As far as Jared knows, no one has even mentioned it to them. They're paid better, work slightly better hours, and have more power than the workers on the floor. “Keep your lines in shape or we'll send you down to work them yourself” is the threat floor managers labor under, and none of them want to jeopardize their tenuous position in the mill hierarchy.

But at the same time, none of the men on the floor want to jeopardize their jobs either, and there's always the possibility someone will rat them out to save his job.

Misha brushes crumbs off his shirt. “I don't know who it is. Someone who's been sucking up.”

The bell rings. Men stand, clean up after themselves, go back to work. Jared tries to look around the floor and suss out if any of his fellow workers could be spying on the strike organizers. He knows the risks of striking, but he has no respect for anyone so afraid of those risks that they'd go to the owner to stop it. Undercutting your own future is stupid and senseless. If the workers strike, they'll have some leverage, they can force a deal. Better hours, better money, some provisions if they get hurt.

Jared thinks about Timothy, out of commission and out of options. That could happen to anyone. Men get almost no training when they start, and even the most observant, the most conscientious of workers can be distracted for a quick second. Two months ago one of the boilers exploded, luckily between shifts when no one was around, but that could happen in the middle of the day when someone's tending them. Everyone is always running the risk of getting hurt – men cut themselves on sharp edges and burn themselves on hot metal all the time, and once in a while someone on the loading dock will lose control of the finished canvas and end up underneath it, pinned by the weight of heavy airship fabric rolled into a spool six feet tall. The mill needs to be held responsible when badly-maintained machinery fails, and the owner needs to be forced into some responsibility for the care of the workers.

Monday night they meet at Misha's flat. His place isn't any bigger than anyone else's, but his wife Victoria is all in on the strike and has taken the kids to her sister's for the night, to give the strikers a little more space and to give herself plausible deniability. Twelve men pack into the crowded apartment to make signs and come up with slogans and finalize plans and speculate as to who the spy might be. Misha is convinced it's one of the floor managers. Matt thinks it's that new guy, what's his name, works on Jim's line. He looks shifty all the time. Aldis says no, can't be him, guy never says three words to anyone and you'd think a spy would want to talk to people to get them to open up about their plans.

Jared trusts everyone in Misha's front room, but what if one of them turns out to be a spy? What if one of the men currently gossiping and arguing and painting signs is really just here to take notes and report back to the managers and the owner? What if one of his friends turns out to be an enemy?

He shakes his head, clearing that thought. He can't go down that road. It's too late, anyway. They strike tomorrow.

They sneak out with their signs late that night. In the morning they'll either hide them around the mill or get someone else to, and at noon, when the bell rings for the first lunch shift, if everything goes to plan, all the workers will put down their tools, shut off their machines, and walk out.

Jared hopes it's that easy.

And for a little while, it is. Not everyone walks out, but there are enough men leaving their stations, taking up signs, and forming a line outside the mill that production has to stop. Jared estimates 70% of his section walks out, and when he passes Misha in line, Misha whispers that almost three-quarters of the floor, all told, has left. He can't say how many men walked away from the giant cutting machines or the rollers that spin the canvas into huge spools for shipping, but it seems a safe bet to assume 70% or 75% of them too.

The mill is off a major road, and there's always someone walking around. The workers march and chant and make their demands – better pay, fewer hours, concessions for men who are hurt on the job – and make as much noise as they can. Theirs will be a peaceful demonstration. They don't mean harm to the owner or the mill (well, at least their official stance is that they won't damage any property), they just want to be treated fairly.

Whoever the spy was, he either didn't tell anyone in time, or he didn't tell them the right thing, or they just didn't listen, because it's an hour before the strikers see any results, aside from several floor managers coming out to tell them to knock it off and get back to work. A crowd has gathered to watch, yell insults, express support, or to ask the workers why they're striking. What happens to disperse the crowd and let the strikers know someone heard them is, unsurprisingly, the police.

“Disperse and return to your work!” one of them calls, presumably the captain. “This strike is illegal!”

“It's perfectly legal!” one of the workers calls back. Jared thinks it might be Jim but he can't see. “Last year, the Council voted on peaceful demonstrations, ruled them legal. Seated Session 186. Ask your chief.”

“That only applies to political demonstrations.”

“Doesn't say so in the record.”

“He read the record?” Aldis says to Jared in an undertone. “I didn't know anyone actually did that.”

“Misha probably has,” Jared says. “Shh.”

The police captain turns to the cops standing closest to him and tells them something, Jared can't hear what.

“Get ready,” he hisses at Aldis.

“I'll tell you one more time,” the captain calls. “Disperse and go back to your work.”

No one moves. Jared can hear rustling and coughing and murmuring among the workers. A lot of the watching crowd has vanished, but there are still people standing around. Some of the police shift on their feet. Jared can see the captain is wearing a pneumatic handgun in a holster, but even though the rank and file are armed merely with staffs or billy clubs, they could be itching for a fight, and Jared knows never to discount a cop with delusions of power.

But at the same time, the police shouldn't discount the strikers either. They might not be armed, but they have right on their side.

The captain blows his whistle and the police advance. When they get close enough to reach out and touch, one of the men farther down the line swings his sign and whacks a cop in the face.

 _Shit_ , Jared thinks. They knew there could be violence, but he was hoping one of the police would swing first.

“Hold the line!” he yells, feeling like an army officer in the midst of battle. “Stand fast!” He hears his command filter through the crowd, men reminding each other to hold their ground and not retreat. They have to show strength, and more than that, they have to show _unified_ strength. Cowards get nothing.

They have to let the owner know they're a force to reckon with, and they won't back down.

Jared realizes suddenly that the cops have just given the workers something the police captain clearly hasn't predicted – a target. The owner is untouchable in every way. No one with any sense is going to lash out at a floor manager, not if he wants to keep his job. But if you're a worker who feels powerless, who feels taken advantage of, who's overworked, underpaid, and dismissed from all corners – if you're a man who's been treated like a plowhorse – here's a cop, right in front of you, a symbol of everyone and everything that wants to keep you on the ragged edge of poverty and exhaustion. Here's a target for you to take out your anger and frustration on.

It's a brawl now, millworkers against policemen, everyone shouting and swinging and kicking and hitting. Out of the corner of his eye Jared can see someone biting a policeman's ear, and he has just enough time to think _This wasn't supposed to turn into a bar brawl_ before he's distracted by another cop taking a swing at him. This is the largest, most confusing scuffle he's ever been in, but at least it's easy to tell who's on his side and who isn't, and he's never been afraid to stand his ground and hit back if he's attacked.

If the cops want a fight, the millworkers will give them one. He ducks a policeman's swing and hits out in defense, taking some satisfaction in the way the cop grunts and staggers back. Then someone stumbles into Jared from the side, almost knocking him off balance, and he loses his opponent.

He has a disconnected flash of insight as whoever slammed into him grabs him, steadies him, and grins widely before spinning around to tackle another cop. It's not an economic problem – it's a lack of respect. The men in power, the men with money, just don't want to have to show respect to anyone they consider below them. They don't think those people matter.

That's what this is about. If you respect a man and his work, you treat him fairly for it. And the owner doesn't.

But Jared can make him.

The melee finally ends when the police wagons show up, and the cops manage to get enough of an upper hand to start herding the striking millworkers into them. Some men have run off, and Jared thinks less of them for it. Don't they know this only works if everyone stands together? Some of the workers are laid out on the street, too injured to run or to put themselves in the wagons. The cops haul some of them upright and shove them in. At least no one's dead.

Jared is shoved into a wagon next to Misha and Aldis. Misha is bleeding from a cut over his eyebrow and can't stop grinning. He looks jubilant. Aldis, along with most of the other men packed into the wagon, just looks tired.

“We might have lost the battle, men,” Misha says, “but the war is just starting.”

Three separate men tell him to shut up.

“There was a reporter in the crowd before the cops showed up,” Tahmoh says. He's from Ocelo, Jared remembers, and knows a little bit about organizing from his years harvesting grapes. “He asked us a bunch of questions. So we could be in the papers.”

“Good,” Misha says.

“Depends on what he reports,” Aldis points out. “Whose side is he on?”

“That depends on the paper he writes for,” Milo says. “We're not that different from the street reporters, you know. We're at the mercy of the floor managers who are at the mercy of their managers who are at the mercy of the owner. Reporters, the same. His editor answers to another editor who answers to the publisher. The publisher's the same as the mill owner. He controls the purse, so he controls the message.”

Jared blinks at Milo. He thought he knew the guy pretty well, but Milo never said anything particularly insightful during their meetings – he never said much at all – and this is something Jared hasn't considered, this similarity between the various types of workers in the city. He knows everyone down at street level has a boss, and most of those bosses take advantage. He knows there are far more men and women struggling to survive than there are men and women who are comfortable. Wheels start turning in his head.

But Milo's still talking. “If that reporter writes for a paper that's owned by someone who's friends with the mill owner, message comes down to demonize the strikers. If the publisher wants to bring the mill owner down, we get better press.”

“They all know each other,” someone else says. “All the rich men.”

“Yeah, but that doesn't mean they like each other.”

“The publisher could still be on the side of right,” Misha points out, “because it's the right side. If we can control the message - ”

“We need to get other people involved,” Jared interrupts. “Other workers, people like us.”

“We need to take care of ourselves first,” Aldis says. “Get out of jail, try to keep our jobs.”

“You think the cops came because someone snitched?” one of the men asks, and that distracts enough of them from their immediate future that the wagon is consumed with the question of who reported the strike to the bosses, if someone reported it, why he'd do that, and what they can do to him.

Jared isn't sorry for the change of subject, but he wants to think about what Milo said some more. Anyone at the bottom of any economic ladder is in the same place. They're all under someone else's thumb, all held down, abused and misused. The man or woman at the bottom of the ladder, someone's keeping a foot on that person's neck because they can, because it's to their advantage and they don't have to care. Jared knows the labor organizers need to shore up their own foundations first – they need to regroup and replan and keep convincing the rest of the workers that if they stand together they can really get something accomplished – but what if they could show the dockworkers, say, that they not only deserve better but that there's a way to get it? What if his one group of millworkers can train others to bring the idea of organized labor back to their colleagues? What if he and all the other men who walked out today can prove that it works, that if the men at the bottom stand together, they can wrest some concessions to make their lives better from the men at the top?

Misha's not wrong. They did lose this battle. But they know that at least three-quarters of the mill will stand together for better pay and better working conditions, and they know that even if the police did win this round, the strikers made an impression.

“Why are you smiling?” Aldis asks him.

“I have an idea,” Jared says. “It's just a seed, though. I have to think it through.”

“Does it involve turning a reporter?”

“Not really. But you're right that we have to think about ourselves first. We'll get out of jail - “

“Hopefully we didn't all lose our jobs,” someone pipes up.

“Go back to work tomorrow, keep our heads down, make a new plan.”

The gears are turning in his head. The wagon bounces and rattles through the city, its old steam engine clanking and hissing and making a racket. The men crammed inside discuss and argue and tell each other to shut up and ask each other to continue. Jared tries to block them out so he can tease out this new thought.

They're all taken to the central station - “Makes it harder for friends and family to bail us out,” someone suggests – written up, and locked up.

“Great,” Aldis mutters, “now I have a record. My mom's gonna kill me.”

“She knows why you did it,” Jared says. “She'll be proud.”

Aldis seems to think about that. His mother is a cleaner in some rich man's house, hiking up and down the back stairs all day, out of sight of the wealthy, polishing silver and scrubbing laundry and hauling buckets of water to wash floors and, when she was younger, chasing small children and trying to make them behave. She spent so much time watching other people's children that someone else had to help raise hers, and she's far from alone in that.

“She might be proud,” Aldis finally admits, “but she doesn't have the crowns to bail me out. Edwin either.”

“We need to take up a collection for next time,” Misha says, “like we did for Timothy.”

“There won't be a next time,” grumbles one of the men in the cell with them. “You think men want to put their jobs on the line just to get beat up and thrown in jail? We don't get anything out of this.”

“You don't know that,” Matt says. Jared lost track of him during the strike but when the wagons brought everyone to the station, they were all thrown into cells willy-nilly, and Matt ended up in his. “We showed the owner that most of us want to be treated better, and we're willing to walk off the job for it.”

“You mean we're willing to lose our jobs for it. What's the point of striking for a better wage if you end up unemployed?”

To their great surprise, none of the strikers lose their jobs, or even many of their hours. Their wages are just cut. But the men who didn't walk out all get a very small raise, more a token than anything else, and an extra five minutes for lunch.

“That's smart,” Misha tells Jared during their ten-minute lunch break. “Put us all back on the floor together and wait for the tension to rise.” He bites into his sandwich.

“Keeping us around is kind of stupid,” Chad says.

“They're telling us we can strike without worrying about our jobs,” Jared adds, “and that's just going to encourage us to do it again.” The owner had a chance to get rid of the agitators and didn't take it. It doesn't make sense. Jared would have fired them all, if he was in that position.

“No.” Misha chews. “They expect us to fight among ourselves. Anyone who struck can see that the men who didn't all got a raise, and the men who did all got a paycut. The owner assumes we'll destroy the prospect of organized labor from the inside. He won't have to trouble himself to do it. He's poisoning the well.”

Jared's heard some grumbling up and down his line, former strikers who are glad they kept their jobs but angry that their wages were cut. He's glad he's not the only breadwinner in his tiny family, and that they don't have children to support. Jensen is still pissed at him for getting thrown in jail, but at least they won't starve.

But there were articles about the strike in the newspapers this morning. A couple were sympathetic to the workers, most were not, and one had no obvious bias one way or the other. Jared's not sure if they can use the sympathetic press to put some pressure on the owner, but if nothing else, the millworkers who can see that at least someone else is on their side should feel more secure in their choice to strike.

Mr Morgan has an idea for future productions at the Augustus, and that idea seems to be “Take Jensen to a well-funded theater to show him how it can be done”.

Jensen puts on his best suit, uncomfortably aware that his best suit, while good enough for his own ward, isn't quite good enough for a box seat in an uptown theater. They're not even going to a matinee, but rather an evening show, where people tend to dress up and sparkle more. The only decorative thing Jensen owns is a pocketwatch he inherited from his grandfather. He doesn't even have a pair of cufflinks.

Mrs Morgan, who is constantly telling Jensen to call her Hilarie, laughs that no one will be looking at him and he shouldn't worry. She rearranges her lacy shawl to better display her shoulders and cleavage, and the faceted red jewel nestled between her breasts.

Jensen can almost hear Alona sniff “Paste”, dismissing the sparkling red stone, but he can't tell the difference between a good fake and a real jewel – he doesn't think Alona can either – and he's pretty sure Mr Morgan has the money to buy something that extravagant for his wife.

The theater is bigger and plusher and in much better condition that the Augustus, with gold scrolling all over the ceiling and doorframes, burgundy velvet seats with shiny dark wood armrests, intricate designs etched into the glass of all the wall sconces, even lighting, heavy paper programs, and a concessions stand like a fancy bar in a fancy pub. Half the bottles have labels in languages Jensen can't read. He feels decidedly outclassed.

“If you think this is posh,” Mrs Morgan whispers to Jensen, because apparently his staring is obvious, “you should see the old royal theater. Gold for miles and the most unobtrusive machinery you've ever encountered.”

“I don't think I've encountered it here,” Jensen whispers back.

“Just wait.”

Mr Morgan buys him a drink, and he watches as the bartender ostentatiously spins a little wheel on the wall behind him, making several small spheres of ice rattle out of a wide brass spigot into the glass. Jensen tries not to stare. The bartender pours two fingers of whiskey into the glass and hands it to him with a flourish. The balls of ice are all perfectly round, the exact same size, and don't change the taste of his cocktail at all, other than to make it cold.

“The bartenders in the old royal theater don't make a big deal of the ice,” Mrs Morgan tells him, as they move away from the bar. Both she and Mr Morgan have glasses of wine, apparently just as cold as Jensen's drink. “But here they like to put on a little show.”

The bartenders at the pubs Jensen frequents don't make a show of pouring drinks either, but they know their customers don't care. In some places you're lucky to get a clean glass, never mind a cold beer.

The lobby lights flicker, making Jensen look around, concerned.

“Come on,” Mrs Morgan says, taking Jensen's arm and leading him towards the doors into the auditorium. “The show's about to start.”

So that's how the nicer theaters let people know it's time to take their seats. In the Augustus, whoever is working the box office is in charge of herding theatergoers out of the lobby and into the auditorium before the show begins.

The seats in this place are very comfortable, Jensen has enough leg room, and the audience hushes respectfully when the house lights dim. The play Mr Morgan has brought him to is a supernatural drama involving a gentleman murderer, a police detective, a madwoman, a discreet amount of fake blood, a beheading, an elaborate set, a tilting stage, and several “ghosts” flying through the air on wires. Jensen tries to see into the fly loft over the stage to look for a catwalk and the kind of rigging this uptown theater uses, but it's unsurprisingly hidden by the curtain across the top of the proscenium and he can't see anything from his seat. He wants to get back there and check things out, but there's approximately zero reason for anyone to let him.

He sits back in his extremely comfortable velvet-upholstered seat and concentrates on the play. He makes note of the acting styles, the staging, the costumes, the overall design of the production. The lighting takes on a red cast for the beheading and a blue cast for the flashback scene. Jensen wonders how the crew managed that. Removable lenses on the spotlights, or just someone holding a piece of colored glass in front of them at the appropriate times? He'll put Osric and Alex on that. Hopefully won't break anything figuring it out.

The play isn't quite his taste, but he can't deny that it's well-done. He's only heard of one of the actors, but from the quality of the production and the theater itself he assumes the rest of the cast and crew makes enough money to live off this one job. The wardrobe mistress doesn't have to care for the costumes in her off-hours and work a day job to support herself. The crew can devote their whole time to building sets and moving lights and organizing props, and not have to work nights to keep a roof over their families' heads.

“You'd think that, wouldn't you,” Mrs Morgan says during intermission, after Mr Morgan asks how Jensen likes the production so far, and all Jensen can talk about is the money the theater must make. “There isn't much money in theater, unless you're a star.”

“The crew here has a full-time contract with the theater,” Mr Morgan says, “but the cast changes with every production. It isn't run the same way as the Augustus. Don't worry, I don't want to change that. I just want you to see what else is possible in terms of productions.”

“We don't have the money for such elaborate sets,” Jensen points out. “Or the space. I think we can manage colored spotlights, though. That's very clever.”

“I thought so too. They use colored glass for the lenses. It shouldn't be hard to adapt.”

“Would you like another drink?” Mrs Morgan asks Jensen. “You can watch the ice-maker again.” She grins.

“No, thank you,” he tells her. He can't let the Morgans buy him another drink, not after they sprung for a good seat for him at this theater.

“Are you sure?” Mr Morgan presses, and when Jensen nods, he continues “I think I would. Hilarie?”

“Another red, please,” she says. “See if they have an Ocelan.”

Mr Morgan saunters off towards the bar and Mrs Morgan entertains Jensen with stories about the theater and the actors and some of her husband's earliest productions until Mr Morgan returns with fresh glasses of wine. He hands one to his wife.

“I know what you think of the production values,” he says to Jensen, smiling a little, “but what do you think of the play?”

“It's very well-done,” Jensen says. “The acting's a little broad and the play itself isn't really my taste, but the ghosts were scary and the beheading was pretty convincing.”

“We could do that too. It's sleight of hand and lighting tricks and a dummy head. I know you had your heart set on a musical but I was thinking the next production should be a horror drama. People like to be scared, and we can do something impressive.”

Jensen isn't sure he agrees with either of those things, although he's more than willing to try for “impressive”. If he can convince his company to get their shit together in less than three days and execute a near-flawless opening performance, he can figure out colored lights and beheadings.

“And what do you think so far?” Mr Morgan asks Mrs Morgan.

“It's quite good,” she says, sipping her wine. “The beheading made me jump in my seat.”

“We're going to put on a horror show next,” he says with finality. “After the current run. I think the audience will like it.”

“Will there be a beheading?”

“At least two.” He grins and holds out his arm for her. “Shall I escort you back inside, Mrs Morgan?”

“Why, thank you.” She inclines her head, then holds out her free hand to Jensen. “And I shall escort Mr Ackles.”

Her sense of humor reminds Jensen of Danneel and Genevieve. They're all flirts.

Once a month Jensen meets with Mr Morgan to go over the box office returns, discuss the current show (whether it's in production or still in rehearsals), and plan the budget for the next show. Sometimes Mr Morgan comes to the theater. Sometimes Jensen goes to his office. Sometimes they meet somewhere in the middle.

This month is a “meet at Mr Morgan's office” month, and Jensen puts on his best suit and shines his shoes and brushes his hat so he won't feel like a beggar with his hand out when he presents himself to Mr Morgan's secretary. He's always been told (and has always believed) that the more pressed you look, the better service you'll receive, regardless of which industry you're in or what position you hold.

Mr Morgan's office is in the mid-city business district, far enough from the river to be a quality ward but not so posh that Jensen feels uncomfortable. He's wearing the exact same suit he wore to the theater with the Morgans, but somehow he feels less out of place, and more presentable, walking along the sidewalk towards Mr Morgan's building. He glances up to feel the sun on his face and catches sight of an airship gliding serenely over the city. He feels a twinge of pride knowing Jared could have worked the loom that wove the canvas that enables the airship to fly, and a twinge of frustration at both the mill's owner for not treating his workers right for such vital work, and Jared for constantly pushing the issue.

The airship passes beyond the tops of buildings and out of sight. Jensen stops to watch the wrap-around perpetual newsrun over the second-floor windows of the building on the corner, reading to himself as the wooden letters glide along their tracks and around the bend of the building, spelling out current news headlines and weather predictions and reminders about Council business. When he first came here from his hometown, he would watch the newsrun on one building for half an hour, then walk to the next one he knew of, to see if the news was any different. There are several in the business districts, and he learned that the news you see depends on where you are – near the Council Hall and the law courts the news tends to be about recent or upcoming legislation and whatever big cases the Council lawyers have on trial, whereas in other parts of the city you'll see economic or trading news, or international news, and there's one run around a newspaper building that seems to exist purely to share high-drama scandals and gossip.

The technology is above anything the Augustus can afford, never mind the costs of retrofitting the building to accommodate such a thing, but every so often Jensen entertains the idea of doing something similar on the marquee. He'd display the title of the current production and the names of the main actors. They'd keep the display posters and the schedule and current ticket price on the window, but a moving marquee, that would be something else. He'd get metallic-painted letters for nighttime, so they'd sparkle in the marquee's gas lights.

But it's just a dream, a fantasy. Right now he has to content himself with a static marquee and a tall ladder so they can change the titles for new productions. He knows that some theaters have moving displays in the lobbies or out in front of the building, with pictures of the actors and sometimes the production itself sliding in and out of view. Now, as he crosses the street to Mr Morgan's building and walks through the doors and calls the elevator, he wonders what Osric and Alex could do with that idea, if they could rig up something modern and technologically advanced to excite a potential audience. It's not arrogance to say his theater is one of the best in the ward, nor is it overselling to say he has a regular and faithful audience, but it would be nice to give folks something interesting, something to make them think they're in a better class of theater than they actually are.

He doubts he'll ever be able to do any of that at the Augustus, but a man can dream. Why else did Jensen even come to the city in the first place, if not to live out the dreams he couldn't realize back home? How else do men and women raise themselves out of the dark, except by dreaming? How else is the dark even bearable?

Mr Morgan's secretary lets him know Jensen is here to see him. Jensen takes a seat on one of the plush chairs in the waiting room and thinks about moving marquees and rotating displays of images. He thinks about better, more accurate spotlights and trap doors and how difficult it would be to build a platform to raise or lower actors onstage.

In trying to make his case to Mr Morgan, he feels a little bit like Jared must feel negotiating wages with the mill owner. They're talking about budget, after all. The theater has no contingency fund in the event of emergencies, and they can't raise ticket prices very much, so where would they get these extra funds? It's a reasonable question.

But Mr Morgan is the kind of person who will take Jensen to a good mid-city theater to see a well-funded production as a way to give him ideas for future productions in his own place, so Jensen feels secure in mentioning at least the moving marquee or the advertising display as something they should consider.

“Hm,” Mr Morgan says. “I'm not opposed to any of your ideas. Let's think about the moving stage. We could mount some interesting productions with that. The crew's good, aren't they? You know them better than I do – is that something they could build? Can it be done?”

“I think so,” Jensen says, even though he has absolutely no idea if it can or not. He's not an engineer. “I'll talk to the crew today. We'll look under the stage and try to figure it out.”

“Good. Then we'll determine how much we can spend on it. How are the audiences?”

“They're still coming. We haven't had any problems with the spotlights recently, although there's a leak backstage that no one can find the source of.”

“How bad is the damage?”

Jensen shrugs. “Hard to tell. It leaks, then it dries. Then it leaks, then it dries. There are streaks on the wall and the floor's discolored, but I don't know if there are any problems inside the wall. The floor's slippery, though. I don't want anyone to fall.” In fact they discovered there was a leak when Sterling's foot slid across a puddle and almost brought him down, one performance when he was trying to get into position for his entrance.

Sometimes you just have to let the leaks go, if the source is inaccessible or no one has time to find it. But you don't want mystery puddles in a theater. Besides, the longer there's a drip, the more likely the wood is to rot, or the plaster to come off the wall, and the longer they wait to fix it, the more expensive and extensive the damage can be.

Mr Morgan pulls a sheet of paper out of a desk drawer, scribbles something on it, and pushes it across the desk towards Jensen. It has a name and address on it. “If you can't find out where the leak is coming from and patch it, contact him.” He taps the sheet of paper. “He's very thorough.”

“How will we pay for that?”

Now it's Mr Morgan's turn to shrug. “Have him send half the bill to me. The theater will have to cover the other half.”

Jensen folds the piece of paper and puts it in his jacket pocket. The theater can't afford even half a contractor. He'll make Alex look for the leak. It will give him something to do besides mess with the spotlights.

“I'll come see the show this week,” Mr Morgan is saying. “Sit in the back, watch the audience. I'm glad it's doing well. I told you a farce would sell.”

“People like to laugh at the upper classes,” Jensen admits. He hates having to admit it, because he was opposed to doing it in the first place, but _The Merits of Mr Marsden_ , for all its problems as a production, is bringing in the paying audiences.

“I think I've found just the playwright for the next production, the horror. Go to his next matinee and tell me what you think.” He reaches into the drawer again, this time pulling out a few coins and handing them over. Jensen's one misgiving about horror is getting the effects right so the play is genuinely scary, but his crew is pretty good at making a lot from a little. And if he can't find a suitable alternative, horror is what they'll do. Maybe he can get Jared to go to this playwright's current show with him. They'll scrape some coins out of the sofa cushions to cover his ticket.

Jared is all for it – he likes horror dramas – and the show in question is even playing in a theater Jensen knows. It's in a less shabby ward and has pretensions to greatness, expressed in faux marble and flaking gilt paint and faded, if still plush, seat cushions. There's even a rattling, hissing ticket machine behind the window, spitting out printed tickets with assigned seats on demand. The Augustus only has preprinted tickets and general seating, but if Jensen wants to be fancy, he can use a different typeface for each new show.

He takes Jared's hand during the performance, for no other reason than he can. Mr Morgan has sent them to a ghost story, and the first time a ghost appears Jared squeezes Jensen's hand hard enough for Jensen to elbow him in the side.

“Ow,” he hisses.

“It was scary,” Jared hisses back, but when Jensen glances at him, he's grinning.

“It's a good thing I love you.”

Jensen likes this horror drama better than the one Mr and Mrs Morgan took him to, and seeing it in a cheaper theater gives him a more realistic idea of what can and can't be done, in terms of staging and props and sets. There are no beheadings, but the ghosts are pretty good and the audience reacts appropriately.

There's no intermission, which he doesn't mind. Not all of the Augustus's productions are long enough for intermissions either. 

“What do you think?” he asks Jared afterwards, as they're walking out.

“I liked it,” Jared says. “It was kind of scary. But you know I like a good ghost story.”

“You think it will play well at the Augustus?”

“Sure, why not? Is _Marsden_ about to close?”

“No, but it's never too early to start thinking about the next show. Mr Morgan is stuck on horror, and unless I can give him a good musical, that's what we're going to do. He liked this playwright.”

“You still want to do a musical?”

“I still want to do a musical. The sets are easier. They're light and fun.”

“Danny can't sing. She'll be pissed if you pick a play you know she can't star in.”

“It doesn't matter. We're not doing one any time soon. It looks like horror or nothing.”

“Don't sweat over it.” Jared grabs Jensen's hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses the back of it. “It'll be great, whatever you do. You know it will.”

Jensen feels arrogant agreeing, but Jared's not wrong. The Augustus, for all its poverty-related faults, can still mount a good show.

“Do you have to be anywhere soon?” Jared asks. “Do you have to go to the theater?”

“They did the matinee without me. If there was a problem I'll find out later. We should get something to eat, though. Why?”

Jared leans close and whispers “I want to do things to you that I can't discuss in public.”

Jensen grins. “I think I can accommodate you.” Food can wait.

If they both start walking a little faster, well, anyone who knew why would understand.

The sky is clouding over by the time they get home, bringing the prospect of rain. They'll leave the windows open a little and get some clean fresh air into the flat. And if the rain is loud enough, they'll be less likely to disturb the neighbors. That's one of the (many) problems with living cheek-by-jowl with so many other people, in buildings with such thin walls – you can hear things you wish you didn't. Jensen and Jared used to be able to count time by when the family in the apartment to the left would yell at each other – they'd start around nine at night, every night, continue for an hour, and take it up again at six every morning – and they knew when the husband who lived upstairs was home because he had a very heavy step and the kids were much louder when he was around. That family moved out several months ago, and the family that moved in is much quieter, aside from the baby crying occasionally. There's a violinist in the building who practices next to an open window into the airshaft, sharing his music with the entire building and the one next door.

Jared and Jensen know every single time the couple across the airshaft has sex with the windows open, but to be fair, if the couple is paying attention at all, they can probably tell when Jared and Jensen are doing the same thing.

Like now.

“You sure you want the window open?” Jared murmurs into Jensen's neck as Jensen's hand trails down his bare back.

“I'm sure,” Jensen murmurs back.

“We'll get wet. The neighbors will hear us.”

“Serves them right for fucking so loudly all summer.”

Jared chuckles.

“They're probably not even home,” Jensen continues. It's the middle of the day on a Sunday, when people who aren't at work are generally at worship or otherwise out of the house. He wiggles under Jared, trying to get his pants off. “A little help?”

Jared chuckles again, sits up, and bats Jensen's hands away from his trouser buttons. Soon Jensen's trousers are on the floor with his shirt and undershorts and all of Jared's clothes, and Jared is nuzzling at his inner thighs. Jared's tongue flicks out, Jensen's skin shivers, and Jared takes the head of Jensen's cock in his mouth.

Jensen is already half-hard but he doesn't mind that Jared seems to be taking his time. They're both quiet, moving so little even the bed isn't making any noise. Jensen can hear the rain start up, pattering lightly down inside the airshaft, right outside the window over his head. There's a slight chill, not enough to bring out goosebumps on his skin – especially not with Jared's mouth raising the temperature in the room – but enough for him to feel a little cleaner, a little fresher. He likes rain. There's something oddly romantic about having sex in this weather.

Jensen brushes his fingers through Jared's hair. He moans softly, encouragingly. Jared lifts his head and grins.

“If you get wet,” he says, “don't blame me.”

“Why are you stopping?” Jensen asks, grinning in return, and Jared goes back to it.

Eventually Jared pulls away, crawls up the mattress, and kisses Jensen on the mouth. “It'd be great if you returned the favor,” he says against Jensen's lips.

“You're not hard enough already?” Jensen reaches down and wraps his hand around Jared's cock. He squeezes, strokes, squeezes again. Jared sucks in a breath.

“Oh, I'm hard. I just want to feel your mouth on me, and watch your head bobbing up and down.”

“I guess it's only fair.” Jensen bites at Jared's lips before sliding down the bed, pushing Jared's thighs apart, and swallowing his cock to the root.

“Fuck,” Jared breathes.

Jensen wraps his lips tight around Jared's cock, sucking hard, dragging his tongue up and down the shaft, teasing the head, working it the way he knows Jared likes. Jensen wasn't anywhere near this confident back in the early days, when they were just getting to know each other's bodies, each other's likes and dislikes, what was guaranteed a reaction and what took some work. But they've been together long enough now that he knows without guidance what turns Jared on, and what will keep him hard without making him come.

He can hear it in Jared's breathing and see it in the way Jared's chest is heaving, so he pulls off and sits up.

“Fuck,” Jared breathes again, the only other word he's said since Jensen started on him. “I love your mouth.”

“I love your cock,” Jensen says, grinning, sliding over Jared's body to take his face in both hands and kiss him thoroughly. “What did you want to do to me that you can't talk about in public?”

“All kinds of things.” Jared rolls them over with some effort, so now Jensen is on his back with Jared on top of him. Then Jared rolls away, flips Jensen onto his stomach, and pulls at his hips. “On your knees,” he whispers in Jensen's ear, “so I can fuck you from behind. You said you didn't care if the neighbors hear us.”

Jensen can tell Jared is grinning wildly against his ear. The rain is coming down harder now. The narrowness of the airshaft keeps it from blowing inside the window, but the sill is a little wet. Jensen imagines rain on his face, and he wonders briefly what it would be like to have sex outside, in a downpour.

“I said they probably weren't home,” he tells Jared, letting himself be maneuvered into position. Jared unscrews the rain-speckled jar of cream sitting on the windowsill, swipes his finger through it, and slides that finger into Jensen's ass. Jensen wiggles his butt as Jared fingers him, until Jared playfully swats his ass and tells him to quit.

Jensen settles his knees on the mattress, feels his cock twitch as Jared pushes into his body.

“I love your ass,” Jared says as he settles himself. “You're so tight and perfect.”

“And you're so hard and – uhn – saints....” Because Jared has started to move.

They rock together on the bed, making it creak. They're quiet otherwise, trying to keep their moans low. Jensen was never very loud, even when he didn't have to take so many neighbors into consideration, and he likes the quiet way they fuck. It seems more intimate, somehow, much sexier than the loud grunts and all the talking that some people prefer.

Not that he minds a little talking during sex, but right now he's concentrating too hard on Jared's steady thrusts, his heavy breathing, the way his fingers dig into Jensen's hips, the sound of their bodies slapping together. Jared leans down, presses his lips to the back of Jensen's neck, his spine, and Jensen can hear him panting with effort and desire.

“I love you so much,” Jared says, breathless. “Not just your ass. All of you. Everything.”

“But the ass helps.” Jensen can't help but grin, even though he knows Jared can't see him.

“The ass helps.” Jared chuckles, sits back up. His thrusts pick up speed.

“Oh, saints, that's good. Harder. Harder.”

Jared obliges. His fingers dig into Jensen's hips as he fucks him harder and faster, panting and grunting and finally coming with a groan.

“I couldn't stop,” he tells Jensen. “Give me... gotta breathe... give me a second.”

Jensen is trying to catch his breath, wanting to touch his own swollen cock, wanting Jared to do it, even basking in Jared's afterglow, when Jared wraps an arm around his chest and pulls him up and back, so Jared is sitting on his heels and Jensen is sitting on his thighs, Jared still buried inside him.

Jared's arm drops, his hand closes around Jensen's cock, and Jensen lets his head fall back against Jared's shoulder.

“This cock is amazing,” Jared murmurs in his ear, hand pumping steadily.

Whatever Jensen might say in return is lost as he comes hard over Jared's hand. He turns his head, seeking Jared's mouth, and Jared's free hand pulls his chin around just far enough for them to kiss. It's messy and awkward but Jensen doesn't care.

“I love you,” he says into Jared's mouth. “I know you know that, but I should tell you anyway.”

“So now would be a great time to tell you we're planning another strike.”

“You're not.”

“Not yet, no. I'm kidding.” Jared presses a kiss to Jensen's temple.

“Asshole.”

“I'm kidding!” Now Jared takes the opportunity to tickle Jensen's thigh. Jensen laughs and swats at his hand, then pushes himself off Jared, scoots around, and tickles him back.

They almost fall off the bed trying to get away from each other and attack each other at the same time, and end up in a laughing, exhausted heap on the tangled sheets.

“I'm kidding,” Jared says again. “We're not planning anything yet. We have to regroup.”

“Don't do anything that will get you killed,” Jensen says. He flicks Jared's nipple. “I'll never have sex with you again.”

“Don't make promises you know you can't keep.”

“You think you're the only one who wants this ass? I can have my pick of cocks. I don't need yours.”

“Yeah, but I'm the only one who can keep that ass satisfied.” Jared smacks it as if to make his point. Jensen smacks back and the argument, such as it is, devolves into another tickle fight. Jensen revels in the fact that they can occasionally act like six-year-olds around each other.

“We should eat,” he says.

“I just want to touch you a little more first. You know, make sure you know who loves your ass best.”

Jensen knows, but who is he to say no to a little persuasion? He can pretend he needs to be convinced.

He should also know that Jared has more labor organizing in mind than just “we need to regroup”, but he has other things to think about. Weeks pass and Mr Morgan finally has his way, announcing that the Augustus will be mounting a horror production, meaning _The Merits of Mr Marsden_ will have to close – why he couldn't just let the farce run its course, Jensen doesn't know, especially since it was his idea to do it in the first place – leaving Jensen to field questions as diplomatically as he can about the abrupt closure of _Marsden_ and the future opening of _The House on Fossle Hill_ , the chosen replacement. He fields questions about the casting with much less diplomacy. He listens with only half an ear to Jared talking about the mill and the workers and what they're going to do to secure their rights as working men. He knows he should give these ideas more consideration, but when Jared announces one night that he wants to run for a seat on the Council, Jensen can't take him seriously.

“You'll never win,” he says.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Jared says drily. “The best way to change the system might be from inside it. Besides, it's time the people of this ward were represented by someone who actually lives here.”

There is no law that says a ward representative has to live in the ward he represents, and ballots for the poorer wards tend to include only men who live elsewhere. Poor people don't generally have the time, money, or influence to run for office, and Jared is no different.

“There's an election in eight months,” he points out. A Council term is six years, but elections are staggered every two among the wards.

“Our rep's not up for re-election yet. You know how hard it is to unseat Councilmen in the middle of their terms.”

“Hard but not impossible.” Jared rolls over, props his head on his elbow, and grins at Jensen. “I can get people to come out to vote for me. I can raise the money for a campaign.”

“How?”

“The theater.” His grin widens. “Fundraisers!”

“I'm sorry?” The theater can just about support itself after returning Mr Morgan his percentage of the box office, but it will never make anyone rich and Jensen doesn't know what kind of show he can put on for free. And there's no telling what the company's politics are and whether or not they'd be willing to support what might be a lost cause, and whether or not Mr Morgan would let them.

“Ask your actors,” Jared says. “I want to know what they think. It's just an idea right now. I think I can win a seat, but there are a lot of details to work out, and I have a strike to plan first.”

Jensen sits up and stares at him. “Jared,” he says, voice flat. “What.”

“We're planning another one. A bigger one. An inside strike. If we shut down the machines and sit down and lock the doors from the inside, we have control of the mill. And this time it won't be just us. Little strikes here and there aren't good enough.”

“They weren't 'little strikes'. You got all the dockworkers to walk off the job and when the cops showed up there was almost a riot.”

“I know. Imagine if the dockworkers and the deliverymen and the men who work the airship fields and the factory workers and the steam tram operators all stopped at the same time. Picture the docks full of men sitting down on the job. Factories stopped. Trams sitting idle on the tracks, just venting steam.”

“The city would grind to a halt.”

“Exactly. Nothing would get done. No business, nothing.”

Jensen thinks about Mr Morgan in his middle-ward office building. That kind of commerce, men making deals and signing papers and adding up money in accounting ledgers, that kind of business would keep on. But anyone who depends on the local grocer, who depends on the city deliverymen, who depend on the men bringing in produce from outlying farms – those people will suffer.

“And when the cops get out their batons to smash all your heads in?”

“Not if the whole city goes on strike. There are more of us than there are of them. And think of the headlines in the papers - cops beating up unarmed, unresisting luggage porters and tram men and factory workers. Think how bad that would make the Council look.”

“You know who owns the newspapers, right? The publishers aren't going to side with strikers.”

“Jensen, banding together is the best way for us to show our strength. We'll be all over the city. Everything will have stopped. They can't put all of us down at once.” He's practically glowing with his vision of the future, a future in which somehow he can bring enough power to bear that he gets what he wants and the Council submits to the demands of a loosely-held group of the Mendeleyan poor.

“You'll get killed,” Jensen says. “And even if you don't, you'll get hurt, you'll get fired.”

“I haven't yet. Think about it. There's still a lot to plan and people to talk to.” He flops back down on the bed. “I mentioned it to Danny.”

“You told her to strike?” Danneel works as a hotel chambermaid during the day. She doesn't like it, but the Augustus doesn't pay well.

“I told her to feel out the other hotel workers. The cleaners, the kitchen workers, the porters, everyone. You know they're all treated like shit.”

“What did she say?”

“They're afraid to lose their jobs. A bad job is better than no job, she said.”

“She's not wrong.”

“She is wrong. We're human beings, not workhorses. We deserve - “

“We've had this discussion before.” Jensen lies down as well. “Go to sleep. I don't want you to get killed for being the ringleader.”

“That's the benefit of organizing a bunch of disparate groups.” Jared rolls over and kisses Jensen on the mouth. “We're all ringleaders.”

But Jensen isn't really in the mood. He doesn't want to think about how the millworkers were beaten up and hauled off to jail the first time they tried to strike. Something as big as Jared seems to want, the Council will press every advantage it has, call in every favor, bring the full might of its power to bear. The Council will get strikebreakers – not everyone will support Jared's plan, and there will always be people willing to beat up their colleagues and neighbors for an extra crown – and his involvement in the strike will keep Jared from the Council seat he claims to want. The current reps aren't going to want a labor organizer in the Hall.

Jared says nothing more that morning, and Jensen goes to the theater to check on the crew's progress. The company is in rehearsals so he needs to make sure the sets are being built and the costumes and props are being organized, that everyone is getting their jobs done and being paid. Sam has masks to show him – nearly featureless full-face masks that he hopes will look excessively disturbing when lit from below. In the absence of expensive effects and fancy stage tricks to get across a scary enough atmosphere, Jensen has decided to use suggestive costuming and footlights with colored glass in front of the lenses.

Sam ties one of the masks over her face, takes the pins out of her hair, and arranges it to fall around the mask. She twitches her shoulders and changes her posture and suddenly she looks like a madwoman haunting the crumbling manor house in a melodramatic ten-penny novel. Perfect.

There's a crash and they both look around. One of the flats has fallen over, fortunately not on top of someone but unfortunately painted side first. Wet freshly-painted side first.

Jensen yells “What just happened?” as he heads towards the stage. The three guys onstage point to each other.

“Well, get it back up,” Jensen says, annoyed now. Things were going so smoothly, too. “Fix it and clean off the stage.”

“I didn't do it,” Jake insists.

“I don't care. You're all staring at me like goats that have never seen a fence. We open soon. Fix the flat.”

They finally move, managing to get the flat upright with a minimum of complaint but a maximum amount of damage to the scene painted on the front. It's for the only scene that takes place outside during the day, so the audience will actually be able to see it. Jensen wonders how he and his theater ever got saddled with such a half-assed crew.

On the other hand, every production has opened with a finished set, even if the paint isn't always completely dry, so maybe they're not as incompetent as they sometimes seem.

Rob fetches a brush and a bucket to get the paint off the stage floor and Jensen goes back up the aisle to where Sam is still wearing the mask. The cast can rehearse with them tonight, see how they work. It's one good thing, at least.

It's a couple of nights later, they're at the pub, and Jensen is standing near the bar watching Jared sitting at a table, talking to whoever else is there – Jensen can't see their faces clearly, but it looks like Jake and Sterling and a couple of strangers – he's watching the way Jared talks with his hands, the way he leans forward, the way he seems fully intent on both his message and his audience. He's animated in a way that has nothing to do with how much he has or hasn't drunk, and has everything to do with how passionate he is about his organizing and how determined he is to make everyone come around to his point of view. He wants the best for everyone, even if it could get them all killed.

It's one of the things Jensen has always loved about him, this determination and dedication and compassion. Jared has found something that he thinks can help not only the people he knows and loves, but everyone in this ward and all the wards like it. He sees a problem and wants to fix it. He sees people being held down and wants to raise them up. He knows the consequences, but thinks the victory is worth the hardship.

He's a good man, and his wanting to share the gospel of labor organizing with everyone who crosses his path is in some ways no different from Jensen wanting to bring good theater to the ward. They both want to make people's lives better. Jensen's way involves a fantasy taking people away from their worries for a couple of hours – or scaring them out of their own concerns – but Jared's way involves something much more permanent, accomplished with more guts.

Jensen admires that. He worries about it, but he can't deny how much he admires Jared for the work he's trying to do. It's much stronger than the pride he takes in Jared's canvas contribution to the airships landing and taking off outside the city. He's suddenly overwhelmed by this admiration, now, in this crowded, smoky pub, overwhelmed and absolutely swamped by his love for his determined, passionate, excitable boyfriend.

Then Alona touches his arm, disrupting his train of thought. She wants to introduce him to someone. Her cousin? Sister-in-law? Friend? Neighbor? Someone she knows, anyway. The pub is loud and the woman's voice is not, and Alona is talking too fast for him to fully understand everything she's saying. Eventually he realizes Alona wants him to audition this woman – her name is Felicia – for the theater company.

“You want to be an actress?” he asks Felicia, leaning close to make himself heard. She nods. Watching Jared has clearly affected him, because he can't help the excitement that creeps into his voice. He's sure he knows more about being an actor in the big city than she does, and he knows better than she does how hard it is, but he still finds himself immediately embracing her dream.

“She just moved into the boarding house where I'm staying,” Alona says. “I got her some work sewing shirts, she'll have time for rehearsals. She just wants an audition.”

“I haven't even been in the city a week,” Felicia says. “Everything's so exciting! There are so many more opportunities here!”

“Where are you from?” Jensen asks.

“Ocelo. I lived in this little nowhere town. But I want more for my life. So I'm here! I want to do everything.”

“The show's already in rehearsals but come by Sunday at two and you can have an audition. Are you good with costumes?”

It never hurt to have someone else in the company who knows a thing or two about costuming, and who's careful enough to not leave an iron where it will scorch.

“I can sew,” she says eagerly. “I'm good with hand-me-downs.”

“Costumes aren't... really that, but good to know. Come at two. We'll talk.”

“Thank you!” She grabs his face and kisses him on both cheeks, startling him and making Alona laugh. Then the two women bounce off and Jensen makes a mental note to remember what just happened. He needs to be prepared if he's going to help her fulfill her desires.

Jared has now been joined by Osric and someone Jensen thinks is one of the guys from the mill. Matt? Is that his name? Good-looking guy, talks a lot. Jensen considers interrupting, considers getting another beer, considers just making a place for himself at the table and listening to what they're saying. If it involves the next strike, he should be prepared for that too.

The last consideration wins out, and he gets to the table just as Jake is making excuses and getting up to leave. Good timing. Osric is in the middle of saying something as Jared says “You know Matt, right?” to Jensen. They shake. Osric keeps talking, Matt interrupts, and it takes Jensen a full ten minutes to get the gist of their conversation. To be fair, he keeps being distracted by Jared's mouth and his hands and the way he seems to concentrate fully on whoever's speaking.

“What about a revue?” Matt is saying, when Jensen finally manages to pay attention. “A little of this, a little of that, maybe a bit from _Fossle Hill_ , you know, a variety show.”

“That could work,” Sterling says.

“Yeah, but we should give people something good,” Osric says. “A revue's... uh... there's no.... We should do a real play. So people get something for their donation, you know?”

So they're talking about raising money for Jared's theoretical run for a Council seat.

“This is good,” Jared says, “but it's not the most important right now. The strike has to go off first. It has to be successful.”

Jake comes back, leans over Osric's shoulder, and asks Jared “Why are you doing this?”

“I thought you left,” Sterling says.

“Ran into Dick. He got me thinking. What's the point here? Why do you think you can get a Council seat? I mean” - he gestures around the pub - “this is where you come from. We don't belong in the Hall. We're nothing. Who's gonna listen to you?”

“The ward will,” Jared says. “Better to have someone who actually knows the ward and the people in it.”

“And you can unseat the guy who's already in the Hall?”

“Yeah. I can.”

“I don't buy it. Dick didn't either.”

“Dick's a dumbass,” Jensen says. Osric spits beer, laughs, chokes. Sterling pounds him on the back. “It's true. Don't listen to him.”

“No, it's ok,” Jared says, “everyone's got an opinion. His is wrong, but he's entitled to have it.”

“Who do you want to represent you?” Matt interrupts. “Your neighbor, or someone who lives in a posh ward who only comes down here to give a speech about how he'll represent our interests to the Council? He doesn't know what our interests are.”

“But you think you can beat him,” Jake says to Jared. “With your... you got money?”

“He's got _heart_ ,” Osric says, slapping his hand against Jared's chest.

“Sure. Takes more than that to win a Council election in an off-year.”

“I'll get the ward behind me,” Jared says. “I'll raise the money. But it's not my priority right now.”

“Yeah, I heard about your strike. The power of the working class, whatever.” Jake flaps his hand dismissively. “I don't care about that.”

“You should. We only get something by standing together, and if you don't see that, you're blind. Right now you can't go to your boss, ask for a raise, and get it.”

“Hey, boss,” Jake says to Jensen, “can I have a raise?” Sterling snorts a laugh.

“This is how we get anything,” Jared barrels on. “Better money, better hours, more respect, redress for grievances, all the things a working man deserves. We stop everything and show the bosses and the owners that without our hard work, they have nothing. Then we can demand what we want.”

Jake just shrugs. “If you say. I think you're asking to get beat down, but it's your life.” And he heads for the door.

“He's wrong,” Matt says. “We can do it. The strike, your Council run, all of it.”

The conversation turns (as everything seems to) to labor organizing. Another millworker joins them – Jensen doesn't catch his name – and Jared is absolutely in his element. Jensen has nothing to contribute to the conversation other than caution, so he listens and watches and lets himself be convinced. And Jared is very convincing.

Soon the whole table is arguing about the rightness and wrongness of the world, the unfair way the working man is treated, the various ways the bosses get around laws and regulations, the question of whether peace or violence or legislation is the best avenue for change. Jared has everyone in his pocket, it seems, and Jensen wishes Jake had stuck around to be swayed.

Jensen can't contain himself any more. He gets up, walks around to where Jared is sitting, and announces “I need to borrow your fearless leader for a minute.”

Jared twists his head to look up. “For what?”

“Private conversation. I'll bring you back, don't worry.”

Jared stands, lets himself be led out of the pub, around the corner, and down an alley, past crates and trash barrels until Jensen thinks they're hidden from the street. He pushes Jared against the wall and kisses him fiercely.

“You're amazing,” he says, when he finally pulls away. “I watched you bring everyone to your side and I was so proud. I'm with you. Bring a city strike. You're right, I was wrong, it's dangerous but it has to be done.”

“You mean it,” Jared says.

“Yeah. I'm behind you all the way.” He grabs Jared's face and kisses him again, unable to fully articulate how proud he is, how in love he is, how excited he is. He can't remember the last time he wanted Jared this badly. He can't remember the last time he could step outside himself and see Jared the way other people did – not the man who shares his life and his bed, but a friend, a neighbor, a coworker, a man with a plan and the will to make it happen.

All the things Jensen loves about him, even the things that drive him to distraction, falling on his head all at once. He's overcome with too many feelings to name.

Jared grabs his ass and kisses him back. Jensen wants to be in control here but Jared has been trying to convince people of the rightness of his ideas all night, and he's not ready to follow someone else's lead. But Jensen is persistent and Jared eventually gives over.

They're grinding against each other now, hands on each other's asses, shoulders, in each other's hair, Jensen pressing Jared into the brick wall and growing harder with every push. Jared moans into his mouth. Fucking in an alley is nothing they'd ever do sober, but the pub toilet is a disaster and Jensen can't wait until they get home. He pushes himself away from Jared long enough to fumble his own pants open, fumble Jared's open, and spin Jared around to face the wall.

Jared is perfectly willing to let himself be manhandled, something Jensen has always found to be a turn-on, even more so after all his talk of leading a city-wide strike. The leader letting himself be led. Jensen doesn't think he can get inside Jared fast enough, can't fuck him hard enough, can't make him come quick enough.

“Uhn... fuck,” Jared groans, as Jensen pounds into him. “Jensen....”

Jensen presses his face into Jared's shoulder, his hips pumping deeper and faster, his breathing harsh, his entire existence narrowed to this one single thing, his cock buried in Jared's body, the scent of them overwhelming the smell of the alley, the noises of the city fading behind the sounds of their grunts and their groans and the clean slap of their thighs as they fuck.

Jensen bites into Jared's shoulder when he comes, tasting cotton and desire. He can feel Jared reach for his own cock, can tell Jared is jerking himself off even as Jensen is still thrusting inside him. It's the hottest thing Jensen can imagine, and his vision whites out for a bare second as he comes in a rush.

“God above,” Jared pants. “That was. Shit, that was – I don't know.”

“Hot as hell,” Jensen says, equally breathless. “I couldn't stop myself.”

Jared rests his forehead against the wall and Jensen leans against him, exhausted and empty. He can hear the sounds of the city again, can smell trash barrels and old piss and smoke. He comes back to himself and pulls out, fixes himself, straightens his jacket, helps Jared with his own clothes.

“Let's go home,” Jared says, leaning close to drop a kiss on Jensen's mouth. “Nothing can top that.”

“I said I'd bring you back inside.”

Jared chuckles. “They'll take one look at us and know why you dragged me away.”

“Let them. It won't change their minds about you. I could see all their faces, Jared. It doesn't matter what Jake says – the rest of the ward will follow you anywhere. Imagine if I could get you onstage.”

Jared's mouth opens, closes. “That's it,” he says. “That's exactly it. Let me go onstage at the Augustus and get people invested in the strike.”

Not even two hours ago Jensen would have said no, absolutely not. But that was before.

He rests his forehead against Jared's. “Okay,” he says. “We open Friday. You get the Sunday matinee, ten minutes before curtain. I take no responsibility if people throw things at you or boo you offstage.”

“I love you,” Jared whispers, kissing him on the mouth before pushing past him and heading back to the pub. “Come on. I'll buy you a beer.”

It's probably the last thing Jensen needs, but if Jared isn't going home yet, he isn't either. Besides, the guys at the table are no doubt still arguing, and Jared will want to rejoin them.

The plan is a simple one – at nine in the morning, everyone stops what they're doing and either walks out or sits down where they are. Steam tram operators will pull the brakes. Dockworkers will put down whatever they're carrying. Men and women in factories all over the city will turn off their machines and walk out. Street sweepers, cleaners, hotel chambermaids – anyone who is used and abused by a distant boss, anyone who's stuck on the lowest rung of the ladder with no opportunity to climb up, anyone whose labor wears them down so a wealthy man can put his feet up after an exhausting afternoon counting his money.

The city-wide strike can't include the uncounted army of men and women who work piecemeal in their own homes, men and women like Genevieve whose tiny apartments are crowded with clothes half-sewn or cigars half-rolled or linens half-embroidered. As far as the city is concerned, they work for themselves. They're entirely in charge of their own working hours and their own working conditions. And those who do have a boss, three or four or five people piled into a room in someone's apartment, work for someone who comes from the same ward they do. It's much harder to strike against someone in such similar circumstances to your own, who you see out on the street during non-working hours.

But Jared is a firm believer in the rising tide that lifts all boats, and if he and his fellow strikers can get concessions for themselves, concessions for the self-employed can't be far off.

He's talked to everyone he can and taken every offer from someone else to reach out. Matt's brother-in-law brings in an impressive percentage of workers at a mill farther up the river. Misha's wife Victoria and her sister have already been organizing the girls at the garment factory where the sister works, and knowledge of the strike has spread through the wards, and the factories where people work, like fire.

“These girls aren't stupid,” Victoria explained, when Jared expressed surprise that people were organizing independently of his plan. “They know how hard they're being worked and how much they're being taken advantage of. They have friends, neighbors, sisters, cousins, nieces in the same boat, and they talk.”

“They're full of piss and vinegar,” Aldis said. His sister works in a mill and according to Aldis she's been a spitfire her whole life and gave his mother more trouble than he and his brother combined. His brother works in a buggy factory and while the men there consider themselves craftsmen more than laborers, enough of them have been convinced that they can get better working conditions, easier working hours, and some recompense when they're injured on the job if they join the city-wide strike.

Jared and all the other organizers he's convinced, in industries all over the city, have designated runners to go from place to place, passing messages, carrying news. Osric volunteered, against Jensen's strenuous objections, and so did Genevieve. Danneel got the chambermaids at her hotel and others to join the strike. She'll be picketing. She won't show up at the Augustus for any performances as long as the strike is on. Jensen isn't happy about that – he's very much of the mindset that the show must go on, strike or no strike – but Jared made him see sense.

They just have to accomplish this one thing, just prove it can be done. There are two obstacles that Jared can see, and one of them is that each group, each striking bloc, has to trust that everyone else will stop at nine. They'll be all over the city, too big and too diffuse a target for the police, and this doesn't work unless everyone stops at the same time.

The other obstacle is the fact that the more people get involved, the greater the chance of spies reporting to the bosses and owners ahead of time. There's nothing he can do about spies in the garment factories or in the hotels or on the steam trams or among the porters at the airship landing fields. He can only monitor his mill and his fellow laborers. He has his own spies looking for spies – Misha, Chad (one of the benefits of being a loudmouth is that no one expects to you to listen to them), Tahmoh, Aldis – but even though no one has reported anything particularly fishy, he can't stop himself from looking at everyone sideways. He has to be prepared for someone to snitch, or sabotage, and for the owner to be made aware of the workers' plan before they can put it into action.

Because the workers in Jared's mill have a surprise. They're not walking out. They're staying put. And they're locking out everyone who's not striking.

The plan for the rest of the city might be to shut down at nine in the morning, but the plan for the millworkers is to sneak in at the end of the night shift, lock the doors, and take control of the mill for themselves. They'll have an hour of the police force's undivided attention when the non-striking day shift can't get inside the mill, and then the rest of the city will strike too.

A couple of guys on the night shift let the strikers in through the loading docks while the rest of the shift is leaving out the front – the night shift workers who joined the strike, which is most of them, will just double back and sneak in later – and then the strikers spread out through the mill, making sure all the entrances are barricaded and the place is shut up tight against any incursions. Jared feels like a general shoring up his defenses in preparation for a morning attack by the opposing army. He should have an officer's helmet, with a plume.

Some of the men drift off to find spots in which to nap. Jared doesn't want any lights on, doesn't want any indication to the outside world that anyone is inside the mill at a time when the building should be empty. He tries to gather everyone on the floor, among the still, quiet looms, to remind them of the plan and the process and the fact that they're doing this for themselves and their children and all the men and women who will come after them.

“We've taken control,” he reminds them. “We have to hold out until nine, and then the rest of the city will join us. This is ours” - he waves his arm, gesturing at the vast room with its vast looms, including the rest of the mill beyond - “and we're not giving it up until we get what we need. What time is it? Does anyone know?”

It's still too dark in the mill to see much, but someone strikes a match, peers at a pocketwatch, and yells out “Just five!”

Three hours, and then one more. Jared thinks about Jensen, no doubt nervously awake in their tiny flat. He thinks about Danneel, who's going to walk out on her job, and about Genevieve, who needs to find another way to get what she wants, and about Jake, who wouldn't be swayed to their side. Jared thinks about the millworkers who refused to join, who will be quite surprised when they're locked out come morning. Well, what did they expect? If they're not 100% with the strikers, they're against them.

He can't stand here and think. He needs to do something. He doesn't know definitively what will happen when everyone outside discovers the mill has been taken over, but he can guess the cops will come out in force to retake the mill owner's property. He has to make sure none of the strikers will just let them in. And aside from that, they all have three hours to kill and they need to be ready.

Jared asks for volunteers to watch the front entrance and the loading dock and any other entrances and exits they can find, to make sure no one tries to break in. He sends a few men up to the roof – reminding them to wait until they can see where they're putting their feet before they climb up there – to keep an eye out for the police. He chats with Misha. He reminds Chad to keep his mouth shut when the cops start making demands. He tries to calm Kurt when Kurt starts to panic about property theft and trespassing and whatever other charges he thinks the city and the Council can bring against them.

“Jim was telling us,” Kurt explains. “There are a lot of things they can charge us for. I can't go to jail. My wife and I are looking after the grandkids – my older daughter's got twin babies - my mom depends on me - ”

“You've already been to jail,” Jared reminds him. “The last strike, remember? Think about Tim. Think about your grandkids. You're doing this for them too, so they can grow up in a world where they have a right to a fair wage, a reasonable workweek, redress for their grievances, care if they get hurt, and some respect from their boss.” He puts his hand on Kurt's shoulder. “You're doing the right thing. Besides, it's too late to back out now.”

Kurt doesn't look reassured. Jared tells him to have faith.

To Jared's great surprise, some of the men lie down and take naps. He can't. His brain is working too hard, reviewing the current plan and contingencies, trying to think ahead, mentally checking off the workers who will join in at nine. He wonders if Jensen's awake, and if he is, what is he thinking. He takes a stroll around the mill to check up on the guys guarding the various entrances and exits. He counts millworkers – the men at the doors, the men on the roof, the men lying around the quiet looms. 

By the time Tahmoh comes to see him, the sun is fully up and Jared thinks it must be almost time.

“Something wrong?” he asks. Tahmoh shakes his head.

“Not yet. Someone tried to get in through the back door. We told him we were striking and it was locked.”

“Who was it?” As far as Jared knows, the back door where Tahmoh was standing is used mainly by the owner. But there's no reason for the guy to be here now. He has an office upstairs but he's almost never in it.

“Dunno,” Tahmoh says. “He didn't say. We told him we had control of the mill and we're going to stay here until our demands are met. Police are probably on their way now.”

“The guys back there with you are on the night shift, aren't they? How are they holding up?”

Tahmoh shakes his head, smiling a little. “Ten hours on a loom, four more watching the door, and it's like they just got out of bed.”

Jared glances outside at the morning sunlight streaming through the tall windows, trying to judge what time it is. Jensen would know. He was always better at determining the hour by the angle of the sun. Besides, he has that nice pocketwatch.

“Get ready,” Jared tells Tahmoh. “This is it.” Tahmoh nods and heads back the way he came. Jared walks around the floor, waking men up, getting them ready. He's nervous but oddly excited. He has faith in his leadership and his plan and the men striking with him, and whatever happens in the rest of the city, the millworkers have still taken full control of the mill.

About half an hour later, one of the guys who was standing watch at the front door appears on the floor and reports that a man who claimed to be the bookkeeper showed up with two cops and tried to get in.

“They told us we're trespassing,” the striker finishes. He snickers.

“They'll bring the rest of the cops,” Jared tells him. “Be prepared.”

It takes a large group of police longer than Jared would have expected to show up, and by that time the men who wouldn't join the strike have arrived, tried and failed to get in, and are now standing around confusedly in front of the mill, or yelling at the workers inside.

The cops try to break in, of course, with no more success than anyone else. The police chief uses a bullhorn to tell the men in the mill that they're all under arrest for trespassing and unlawful entry, both of which make Jared laugh. The day shift workers are supposed to be here. The guys who work nights entered the mill for their shift yesterday. And none of them should be intimidated. They have the power now. They have the mill.

Because the strike was Jared's idea, and because he worked so hard to make it happen, he elected himself spokesman. He thinks he'll make the police chief sweat it out a little longer. Can he make the guy wait until the rest of the city shuts down?

The police chief repeats the charges, adds a couple more for good measure, and appears to direct some of his men to try and break down the front doors again.

Misha comes up next to where Jared is watching this through the window and comments “If they break out the big guns we're in trouble. The cops have a battering ram.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Jared says. “Have you seen the doors?”

“I have, and I've seen the men watching them. We're tough, but we should prepare ourselves for a fight.”

Jared tries to push the window open – the bottom panels of the windows are supposed to swing out to allow fresh air onto the floor – and when it won't budge, he tries another. He leans out of the second window as much as he can and yells “We have the mill! We're not leaving!”

“Make your demands,” Misha reminds him.

“You're all under arrest!” is the police chief's answer.

“Get the owner down here!” Jared yells back. “We'll only talk to him!” He swings the window shut. “Go make sure the doors are all secure,” he tells Misha, and Misha goes.

The police chief looks like he's giving orders to the cops standing around. They clear off all the bystanders, curious passersby and locked-out mill workers both. Jared keeps an eye on them.

After what feels like forever, during which time Jared talks to Misha and Jim and Chad and a bunch of other guys, someone runs up to the police chief and says something to him.

“We're not done here,” the police chief tells Jared through his bullhorn, before apparently leaving someone else in charge and storming off.

“It's time,” Jared says, mostly to himself. He can imagine what pulled the police chief away - steam trams sitting idle on their tracks, chambermaids walking out of their hotels, sewing machines and steam irons in the garment factories falling silent and cold. He can't help but smile as he pictures men and women leaving their places of work and marching on the sidewalks in protest. But he needs to know for sure.

The answer comes in the form of Osric climbing through a window into the coat room. It only takes him five minutes to run into someone, but ten minutes to explain who he is and reassure the guy that he isn't a spy.

“What's the good word?” Jared asks him.

“There are cops everywhere,” Osric says, breathless. “So many steam trams have stopped. It looks like the central depot sent out more drivers, but some of them don't want to cross the strikers. All the striking drivers look ready to fight. You should see the hotel workers! Half the chambermaids walked out still in their uniforms. I saw Danneel and she said they'll all get docked for that, but they were in such a hurry they didn't bother to change back into their street clothes. They're marching in front of the hotel, demanding better hours and more consistent wages.”

“Take a breath. What do you hear from the garment factories? The docks? The landing fields?”

“I saw a delivery guy get into it with a greengrocer. Cops were just marching on one of the garment factories when I got there, but the girls were putting up some fight.” He can't stop grinning. “I thought I heard someone say a buggy factory was on strike too. The steam trams are just sitting there. It's crazy. I had to hide from the cops standing in front of your mill.”

“Have you seen Genevieve?” Osric shakes his head. “Jensen?” Another shake. “Okay. What's your next stop?”

“The central tram depot. We have a man there.”

“Be careful.”

“Will do!” Osric salutes.

“You know how to get back out?”

“I'll take him,” Chad says. “Then I'll go up to the roof.”

He leads Osric off. Jared thinks. So far, so good. The police can't get into the mill, the trams aren't running, the factories are shut down. He wonders how many people are striking out in the city. He wishes he'd asked Osric to try to get a headcount. He wishes he'd asked Osric to tell Jensen he's okay.

“What now?” Matt asks him, not ten minutes later. “Can we make our demands?”

“We're waiting for the owner,” Jared says. “Remember, we'll only talk to him. And I want to see what happens in the rest of the city.”

“That boy who was just here said everything stopped.”

“His name's Osric. I know. But walking out on the job means nothing if you don't stay off the job. We'll give it until at least tonight. See what happens. For now, walk around, pee if you have to, take advantage of the free time.”

Jared takes his own advice and goes for a walk through the mill, checking on his fellow strikers, making sure everyone is behaving, telling them to keep their heads down and their spirits up.

“This is just the beginning,” he says, in every place he stops. “We have a list of grievances the length of my arm but we're not getting anything until the owner realize we're in this for the long haul. If we stick this out,” he reminds the family men, “you'll be able to take better care of your families. We're doing this for your kids,” he reminds the fathers, “and your younger brothers and sisters,” he reminds the older brothers, “and future generations that haven't been born yet,” he reminds the newlyweds and the bachelors. “We're doing this for us. The city's workers are behind us.” He isn't entirely sure that's true, but they did get what sounds like a very large percentage of laborers and bottom-income workers to strike with them. They convinced enough people to fall in with them that the city has ground to a halt.

“I gotta tell my kid I'm okay,” Jim says. His daughter Maddie works as a housemaid for a wealthy family. She and other girls like her aren't part of the strike – their working conditions vary wildly, and at least some of them have secure beds and regular meals in the houses where they work, which they won't jeopardize – but she knows, as a lot of them must know, what's going on and why.

This is the first strike of its kind. Not just that the men in the mill have taken it over, but that they've brought enough of the city to strike with them. No one knows what's going to happen.

“The next time a runner comes in we'll tell him to let her know,” Jared says. Another thing he should have asked Osric – let people's families know they're safe. Osric will probably tell Jensen – as far as Jared's aware, there's still a show tonight, and Jensen will want to know – and Victoria will probably assume Misha is in one piece, but other people's families might worry.

 _Everything about this is a learning experience_ , he thinks. He feels like he should be taking notes.

The police chief comes back around six, to remind the mill workers through his bullhorn that the strike is illegal and they all need to leave the premises so the night shift can get to their stations. Jared pushes open a window again and yells out that they're not doing anything wrong, they're only trying to get the mill owner to listen to them.

“This strike is still illegal,” the police chief repeats. “Don't make us break in.”

Jared knows the doors are barricaded too well for that. If the cops could break into the place, they would have by now. He assumes Chad or someone else blocked the window into the coat room after Osric snuck back out.

“I'd like to see you try,” Chad calls. Jared gives him a shove to get him away from the window.

Another cop comes up to the police chief and says something to him. The police chief stomps off, leaving a contingent of men behind. Jared shuts the window.

“Something's happening,” he tells Chad and Misha. “I don't know what. We need to organize ourselves in case we're here for a while. Make arrangements for food. Make sure we don't get bored.”

“I can do that,” Chad says. “Fun coming up.” He trots off, presumably to organize group games or indoor sports leagues or something. Jared lets himself admit that he was worried Chad would do something dumb and rash out of an overabundance of excitement, but so far, he's behaving himself pretty well.

“How long do you think we'll be in here?” Jared asks Misha, now that they're alone. Men are wandering all over the mill, and every so often someone comes over to the windows to peer out at the police, but when they get close to Jared and Misha, Misha waves them away. “This is all new. I don't think anyone knows what to expect.”

“In some ways it's the same as any other strike,” Misha says, apparently trying to sound reassuring. “We wait for the owner to get down here, listen to our demands, and decide what he's going to do. The only new variable is whether or not he can get the police to break in and force us out.”

“So you're saying you don't know.”

“That's exactly what I'm saying.”

“That doesn't help me. Chad's probably getting a bunch of poker games up and running right now, but we have to eat and sleep and poker's going to get boring. We have to be organized about this. I caught a couple guys trying to break into a locked office earlier, and that can't happen again. We won't get anything if we're acting like a bunch of hooligans.”

“We can get volunteers to think of things to keep us sharp. Victoria and some of the other wives are going to try and get us dinner later, so we won't starve.”

Finding out what the workers are interested in is a good idea. Jared goes off in search of some paper and a pencil, so he can keep track of what people tell him.

A couple of days later Jensen is quite surprised to get to the theater only to discover a notice pasted across the doors announcing that the building has been closed by order of the Council, due to unsafe and unsanitary conditions. If he didn't have to open the place for the matinee, he'd laugh. As if the Council has ever cared about unsafe conditions in the poorer wards. If they did, every single apartment building would have been condemned years ago.

His first impulse is to slice through the notice, unlock the doors, and go inside anyway. He goes around to the alley, where there's another notice slapped on the stage door. He unlocks that door and goes inside. It's true that they still can't find the source of the leak backstage, but it's also true that they've been working around it, and as anyone who works in theater knows, the show must go on.

Jensen unlocks the front doors from the inside, ripping the Council notice in the process, and tries to figure out how to get it off. It's been glued on with paste, like the kind Alex uses to put up the posters for new shows. Jensen knows how well that stuff can stick, but this notice was slapped up quickly and not very thoroughly, and he thinks hot water and a good brush might get take care of it.

He's sponging and scraping when Alex appears.

“What's up, boss?” Alex asks. “What's on the door?”

“Notice from the Council,” Jensen says, scraping at a particularly stubborn bit of paper. “They're trying to close the theater for unsafe conditions.”

“What unsafe conditions? We haven't had a gas leak in a year, and I haven't fallen off the catwalk yet. Is it because of the leak backstage? Why would anyone close the theater for that?”

“They didn't. If I remember right, the gas leak was your fault. Find a scrub brush and help me.”

With Alex's help Jensen gets most of the notice off the door in short order, and then he leaves Alex to get rid of the remaining bits and shreds and goes back inside. He checks the props, the costumes, the sets, even the rows of seats and the tickets locked up in the box office. The puddle from the most recent leak has dried, but it's anyone's guess when the leak will return. Jensen carefully climbs up the catwalk to look at the spotlights, which seem to be in good enough working order, at least for now. He climbs down and checks the footlights, which are also currently fine. The curtain is secure. He fills his bucket with more hot water and takes his sponge and brush outside to scrape the notice off the stage door.

By the time he's done with that the rest of the company has started filing in to get ready for the matinee. Alex comes to get the key to the box office so he can set up. Alona has a complaint about her costume, of course, and Sterling has what sounds like a cold.

“Why are you here?” Jensen asks him. “You sound terrible.”

“I can go on,” Sterling says, and sneezes. Jensen hands him a handkerchief. It's not the cleanest hankie, but it's better than nothing. Sterling blows his nose.

“No you can't. Osric's your understudy. He'll go on for you.”

Fortunately Sterling's role is flexible enough that Osric won't look out of place playing it, but Osric hasn't shown up yet. Jensen knows he's running messages between Jared's mill and all the other strikers, but that's no excuse. He's not the only runner.

Danneel is still striking with her fellow chambermaids, and in fact they've been able to join the march the garment workers have scheduled for this afternoon – Jensen is impressed the chambermaids haven't given in yet – but Sam will take over for her. This is why they have understudies.

The theater is reasonably full for a Sunday matinee, especially considering half the city is on strike, and when Osric fails to show up, Jensen puts on Sterling's costume (which fits him better anyway) and goes on in his place. He makes Sterling take over the prompting, and by the end of the first act he realizes that he can devote himself to performing and leave everything else to the rest of the company, and the show will run just fine. It's both reassuring, because it means he hired competent people, and sobering, because it makes him feel unnecessary.

What is not reassuring is that halfway through the second act, four policemen bang into the auditorium and demand the show stop and the audience leave.

Jensen is offstage waiting for his cue but it's hard to miss the sounds of police making demands and audience members hesitantly starting to move. He walks onstage and down to the apron, behind the footlights, and calls out “What's the problem?”

“This theater's closed by order of the Council,” one of the cops calls back. He waves at the rows of seats nearest to him, indicating that the people sitting in them should move a little faster. “Didn't you see the notice?”

“Yeah, I saw it. It didn't make sense.”

“You need to leave, otherwise we'll fine you.”

“I'm not the owner. I'm just the manager.” Meaning, _You won't be getting any money out of me and it would be dumb to try_. “Why are you even here?” He can feel the rest of the cast standing onstage behind him. Not everyone in the audience is leaving, and Jensen wonders briefly if there's going to be an altercation. The cops haven't stopped moving and haven't stopped trying to get people out, but the longer anyone resists, the closer a fight comes to breaking out.

“We were told that someone had opened the theater in clear defiance of a posted Council order. You have until the count of five to leave peacefully, and then we'll use force. The fine goes without saying.”

“We're not going until you tell us why,” Alona calls from somewhere behind Jensen.

“The building's been deemed unsafe,” the cop says, sounding almost tired. “Don't you people read?”

Jensen holds a hand out to the side, trying to communicate to everyone on stage that they should keep their mouths shut. He can sense the unease and bafflement behind him, and the unease in the audience. He can't understand why an inoffensive little theater in a poor ward should demand any cop's attention, when half the city is on strike and marching in the streets. The police should have better things to do.

It suddenly occurs to him that he probably should have canceled the matinee in solidarity with the striking workers, and so the cast and crew could show their support for the garment workers' march. Jared would no doubt be pleased with him if he did. Well, too late now.

“Is it because of the leak?” Jake asks. Jensen wants to smack him but the nearest cop doesn't seem to have heard.

“Five,” the cop says, holding up his hand. He bends his thumb in. “Four. Three. Two. One. You're out.” He pulls his nightstick from his belt and uses it to shove people towards the auditorium doors, and then someone shoves back.

Great.

“We said move!” one of the other cops yells, and now there's a lot more pushing and shoving, from both police and audience members. A woman starts slapping one of the cops with her hat. Jake jumps off the stage and into the melee, followed by half the cast and what looks like most of the crew.

Jensen is a reasonably law-abiding citizen under normal circumstances. He knows there's nothing to be gained by antagonizing the police, not when you're a person of little power and less money. And everyone in this theater, from the cast and crew on down to the parents who occasionally bring their disruptive toddlers to productions that no toddler should see, is a person of little power, and in the interests of protecting their own skins, none of them should be fighting back.

But these are not normal circumstances. The strikes are wide-ranging enough that everyone here is affected in some way. Even if people aren't aware of all the ways in which the wealthy and powerful alternately take advantage of and ignore the lower wards, even if they haven't had to listen to one of Jared's sermons about the subject, they feel the effects every day, and if nothing else they're aware of how little the greater body of policemen cares to protect them.

Jensen realizes that the strikes all over the city, the strikes that Jared bullied and cajoled into being in order to bring the city to its knees and the Council to the table so the workers could negotiate for a better life – those strikes did something else besides show the upper classes the power of organized labor. They showed the lower classes they had power, and they could fight back.

And now, in Jensen's theater, in the middle of a Sunday matinee, they're doing just that.

All because someone, for some reason, wanted to close the Augustus, and “unsafe and unsanitary conditions” was the best excuse they could think of.

Jensen jumps off the stage to join the fray. All he cares about is getting the police out of his theater before they can hurt – or worse, arrest – anyone. He doesn't bear them any love, but he doesn't want them hurt either, and once this is taken care of, then he can apply himself to the task of figuring out why the order was issued and the notice posted to close the theater in the first place.

Some people left when the cops appeared, but four policemen, armed only with nightsticks, are no match for even half a small theater's worth of confused, angry people. They don't get a lot of free time and they take their chances to be entertained when they can. No policeman should be able to just barge into a theater for no good reason and make people leave in the middle of a production they've paid for. Don't these cops know the city is in an upheaval? Don't they have better things to do with their time? 

Eventually the police are pushed out of the building, although not without some blood being shed and some damage being done. Jensen considers it lucky that no one was arrested and no one was killed, and he'll take a little damage to the theater if it means everyone can go home in more or less one piece.

“Shouldn't we finish the play, boss?” Alex asks, half his sentence lost into his arm as he wipes blood off his nose with his sleeve.

Jensen looks around. Some of his audience has vanished into the ward, either chasing the cops or, what, avoiding them? Most of the cast and crew is within earshot, but is it worth it to try and resume the production? They had half of the second act and all of the third to go. Should he try and get everyone back into the theater for half a play?

“See who you can find,” Jensen tells him. “Tell them to go back inside.”

He sends Sam off on the same errand, with additional instructions to suggest to the people milling around that they go back inside the theater for the rest of the show. She goes off in one direction and he goes in the other, and fifteen minutes later the entirety of the cast (minus Alona, who seems to have disappeared) and most of the crew has been reassembled, the theater has been partly refilled, and any costume damage has been hurriedly fixed. He apologizes to the audience, thanks them for coming back, and gives the cast their cue. He doesn't want to wait for – or spend time trying to find – Alona, and is relieved when she bursts into the auditorium and hustles down a side aisle and backstage.

“Where were you?” Jensen hisses, as she straightens her costume.

“I was on my way to the march,” she explains, breathless from running, “when I realized I was still in costume.” She flips the skirt around. “How do I look?”

“Fine. You're up soon.”

It takes until partway through the third act for the cast to really get back into the mood of the play, but they get control of themselves and the situation, and Jensen thinks it ends well. They get a standing ovation, much to his surprise. Is it because the show went on after the cops tried to break it up? Is it because the theater company fought back? Who knows? The company almost never gets a standing ovation, except occasionally on opening night, although back when Jensen was new to the city and new to the Augustus, the audience stood for a performance by a pillar of the ward, a man who hadn't walked a stage in twenty years but who had been famous when he did.

Jensen doesn't know if the garment workers' march is still going – Danneel told him the route they planned to take, and when and where the speeches were scheduled, but it's anyone's guess if they stayed on route and on schedule – and there's always the chance that enough cops showed to derail it altogether – but he wants to show his support for the strikers. He practically shoves everyone out of the theater as soon as they can get their costumes and makeup off, and as soon as the stage can be reset for tomorrow night, the lights turned off, and the ticket money locked up.

Alona practically drags him through the streets to find the march, Alex hanging on to his coat, and either they're lucky or the march is slow, because they find a spot on the sidewalk in enough time to cheer on the garment workers passing by.

“Have you seen a group of hotel chambermaids?” Jensen asks an older woman standing next to him.

“Can't tell who all they are,” she says. “Could be chambermaids.”

It looks like some of the women are carrying banners and signs, but Jensen's view is blocked just enough that he can't clearly read them. The marchers chant and wave their signs and demand better working hours, better working conditions, better pay. He wonders how many factories they've closed down, if they've closed any at all, and he's impressed that there are so many of them and that there hasn't been any violence yet to try and get them to disperse.

“Got two daughters in that crowd,” the woman next to Jensen tells him. She points at the marchers streaming past. “Twelve hours a day they work, six days a week. One of 'em was out three days and they would've given her seat to someone else if her sister wasn't a good enough worker to make them hold it. I do piecework and look after their kids.” The woman huffs. “Me and my husband came to this city when our girls were just little things. Sometimes I wish we'd stayed on my dad's farm. He had a heavy hand but we was family.”

Jensen nods in understanding. He's never wished he hadn't come to Mendeley – he met Jared here, for one thing, and he wouldn't change that for all the money in the world – but he knows what she means. Back home, in the small towns where people like them came from, they knew where they stood in the world and they knew the people in charge of their lives. If Jensen hadn't run away to the big city, he'd be working for his father, sitting on a bench next to his brother making and repairing shoes. A respectable living, but not one he ever wanted. He might be married to a nice girl by now, probably even with a baby. He wouldn't have much of an outlet for his love of performance. The church his family attends doesn't even have a choir for him to join.

Better for him here, in a city big enough for him to carve out his own space, live a life he can design for himself. Even if someone else is always in charge and taking advantage, even if the men and women in power are so much more unreachable and untouchable than they were at home. There are more people like him in the city, more of the powerless who can be taught that if enough of them band together, there's no limit to their power.

These thoughts make him snort in amusement. He sounds like Jared.

Now the march seems to be coming to an end. The groups streaming down the street are thinning out. They're still chanting and waving their signs, and the crowds on the sidewalks are still cheering and clapping and yelling out both encouragement and insults. Jensen can't tell if the marchers are garment workers or chambermaids or another group of striking female laborers, but it doesn't matter. They're all in it together.

“Where do your daughters work?” Jensen asks the woman next to him.

“Swan Garment Company,” she says. “My middle girl works at a candy factory, but they didn't want to strike.” She shakes her head. “Guess they think they're well taken care of. My oldest said there's speeches after the march. Come on.” She pushes through the people bunched on the sidewalk without even checking to see if Jensen is following her.

“We should go listen to the speakers,” Alona says on his other side, unknowingly echoing the older woman, who has now disappeared into the crowd.

Jensen is pretty sure they've missed some of the speeches by now, but he lets Alona lead him and Alex through the wards to where a massive crowd has packed into Ennitt Square, pressing around a temporary platform. There are four women standing very close together on top of it, one of them yelling into a bullhorn to make herself heard. Jensen can't understand most of what she's saying – he and Alex and Alona are too far away and there are too many people making too much noise – so he asks a man standing near him what's going on. The guy summarizes the speeches they missed and translates the current murmur into a call for equal pay and better opportunities for women, allowances for pregnant girls and new mothers, equal rights and opportunities for immigrants, stricter child labor laws, better working conditions for everyone, recompense for on-the-job injuries, and more humane working hours.

One of the women standing on the platform is holding a sign, which Alex deciphers as saying “United Women's Labor Organization”. Jensen wonders how much Jared and his fellow sit-in strikers know about the march and the speakers and this working women's organization, and what they think of it. It feels to Jensen as if this thing that Jared put into motion, this thing he bullied into existence, is slipping out of his grasp and away from him.

The plight of the working man and woman is bigger than one person, obviously. But this march and this gathering exist because Jared realized that small-scale strikes here and there won't accomplish as much as a giant, city-wide shutdown. The garment workers and hotel chambermaids and whoever else was pulled into this ladies' labor organization was only organized on such a large scale, and at this particular point in time, because Jared and his fellow millworkers decided to include as many working-class people in as many industries as they possibly could. Jensen is convinced that the four women standing on that platform in the middle of the square, as dedicated and as earnest as they are, wouldn't be there and wouldn't have attracted such a crowd if Jared hadn't convinced them and the steam tram operators and the street cleaners and the dockworkers and the men and women toiling in factories all over the city to shut off their machines and put down their tools and stop their trams at the same time on the same day, and bring the city to a screeching halt.

But Jensen needs to be more generous. Jared wouldn't want to take credit for every single strike in every single ward. He leads his fellow laborers in the mill where they work, but if asked, he'd just say he convinced the workers of the city that they have to band together to get what they need, and if they organize, they can make demands and get the Council to concede. He'd say each bloc has its own leader, who isn't him.

Jensen needs to step back and give these women credit for their own efforts, and not try to put their power back into Jared's hands. Isn't the whole point of this strike to get everyone to see that organizing is its own kind of power? It isn't about one man being able to claim credit for the whole thing. It's about many men and women taking control and joining up with their neighbors and coworkers to demand a better life for everyone.

It's exhilarating being here among all these people, although after awhile Jensen starts to feel too crowded. Everyone is pretty well packed into the square, all trying to hear the women speaking. He was never a big fan of crowds like this, and while he hates to leave before the rally is over, he can't stay packed in like a sardine for much longer.

“How much longer do you think this will go on?” he asks Alona, who shrugs.

“Until they're done,” she says unhelpfully.

“I'm going to go back to the theater and make sure everything's ready for tomorrow. Good show today.”

“Even though the cops busted it up?” She grins and Jensen has to grin back.

“Good show bringing it back. I'll see you tomorrow. Don't be late.” He pushes his way through the crowd and out.

The next day, to his surprise, he gets to the theater to find not only another notice pasted across the front doors, but a heavy chain with a padlock laced through the door handles. He goes down the alley to discover someone has nailed a board across the stage door. There's another notice slapped on the board and Jensen realizes that this is more than just someone complaining about the leak backstage. This has to be personal.

This is not something he can take care of on his own. He has to talk to Mr Morgan.

While Jensen is hunting answers through the wards, Jared is hunting chalk. He suspects Chad of hoarding, because it seems like a dumb thing Chad would do. Everyone is still behaving themselves, although there's a certain amount of grumbling from men who miss sleeping in beds, as hard and lumpy and crowded as those beds sometimes are, not to mention a certain amount more grumbling from men who miss sleeping with their spouses. Jared understands that.

They've been organized into groups for entertainment and social reasons, and to suggest and vote on the ongoing process of striking. They make up lists of demands, argue over them, rewrite, argue again. Jim organized patrols to walk the mill and make sure no one is sneaking in or out or letting cops in the back door. Jared has walked what feels like every inch of the place, talking to his fellow strikers, finding out what they want and need, listening to their complaints, reassuring them that this is the right thing to do. They just have to hold fast.

Victoria has organized the wives and girlfriends and mothers of the striking men, making arrangements for deliveries of food and clean shirts and letters. Osric put himself in charge of the collection of message-bearers and news-gatherers whose sole job is to report on all the other strikes in the city, and to carry news back to those strikers about what's happening in the mill. He admits to Jared and Misha that he's enjoying this more than his work in Jensen's theater, and promises to remind Jensen to write so Jared knows how he really feels about the whole thing.

But right now, Jared needs to find some chalk. There's a poker tournament going on and for some reason he's been put in charge of tracking who's playing who, who's winning, what they bet, and which rules they've been using. Aldis, who is not a great poker player because he has a bad poker face, found a chess set in someone's office and is currently teaching the game to a bunch of guys, probably because either they don't want to join the poker tournament or they've been knocked off the grid and need something to do.

“How's it going?” Jared asks them.

“This is about to be the shortest game in the history of chess,” Aldis says. “You sure you want to do that?” he asks Matt, who's sitting on the other side of the makeshift board. “You're leaving your queen open for checkmate.”

Matt moves his knight, presumably back to its previous square. He chews his lip and surveys the board. Aldis helpfully points out a better move. Matt takes it.

“Have any of you seen the chalk?” Jared asks. “Chad put me in charge of tracking the poker tournament and I have to add some winners to the board.”

“Tim always had a stash,” Matt volunteers. “Remember? He was always marking up his crates.”

“It disappeared when he couldn't come back,” Kurt says. 

“Did you check all the offices?” Aldis asks, eyes still on the chessboard.

“Yes,” Jared says. “Twice.”

“You asked Chad?”

“Also twice.”

“Huh. There should be some charcoal somewhere. Use that.”

“The board's black, Aldis.”

“What a stupid thing to worry about,” Milo mutters. He reaches over Aldis's shoulder and gestures at the board. “Put your bishop there.” Aldis swats his arm away.

“Yeah, I know,” Jared says. “We've all got something. I'll find it. Y'all have fun with your game.”

He's surprised to discover a new, unopened box of chalk in one of the offices, in the back of a desk drawer. A thorough search of the other drawers returns nothing much of value except a random handful of pencils and a nearly-empty bottle of ink. Everyone has been through all the offices already, taking stuff out of boredom or spite, so he should probably consider himself lucky that he found anything at all. He thinks about trying to jimmy the locks on the filing cabinets against the wall, changes his mind, and leaves. He can always come back and rummage through those later.

Days pass. Soon it's a week since the strike, then two. The men in the mill learn that the steam tram operators finally made a deal and went back to work after five very tense days, during which people learned exactly how far they could walk, how long it would take them, how much they could carry doing it, and how many things the striking operators would use to fight back with, once the police brought out their billy clubs. People took to hitching rides on delivery trucks, not always with the drivers' knowledge. There are still fights breaking out on the docks and at the airship landing fields and the rail depot, between striking workers and strikebreakers and police. The workers at the buggy factory where Aldis's brother is employed, who struck with the rest of the city, evidently came to an agreement with the factory owner after two days and won some concessions for better wages and hours. Some of the hotel chambermaids went back to work, some were fired, some are still trying to make themselves heard. The garment workers are still demonstrating, still marching, still demanding better treatment. Even the ones who made deals with their factories' owners and went back to work are still stumping for better treatment. There are a lot of them, Jared learns, and they're incredibly unified. He knew, when he was first going around talking to people and trying to drum up interest in a city-wide strike, that they had already started organizing, but it's two weeks into the general strike when he fully realizes the kind of power and determination and straight-up anger he tapped into when he brought them his ideas.

There doesn't seem to be much police violence directed towards the striking chambermaids or the garment workers. A lot of aggression, apparently, but very little actual physical contact. Jared assumes it's because the cops don't want to hit girls, but Misha suggests that in the case of the garment workers, the cops just know they're outnumbered. What few fights they hear about all seem to be between striking workers and those people desperate or cowardly enough to cross a picket line and take a striker's job.

As far as the mill is concerned, the police chief has returned several times (to deliver more bluster, more threats), as has a representative for the owner (also bluster and threats), as has the occasional runner. Osric has gotten very good at sneaking in and out of the mill to deliver news, so good in fact that sometimes he can have the run of the place for twenty minutes before anyone sees him. He started bringing newspapers so the men inside can read about the temper of the city and learn what the overall opinion of the strikes is, outside the lower wards. Opinions vary widely, as do suggestions for ending the strike, although the general mood in the upper wards is unsurprisingly negative.

Victoria and the other wives have organized themselves to send in food and occasional changes of clothes. Misha suggests that the police chief (and by implication, the Council and the mill owner) is allowing that to happen. Every day he seems to have a new theory as to why. Sometimes Jim has a counter suggestion, and Misha likes to argue with him since Jim reads all the public Council records and seems to have a handle on how the Council thinks. Jared isn't listening to them any more. He has two jobs, as far as he's concerned – keep everyone productively occupied inside the mill, and represent their desires accurately to anyone from outside.

The first is going pretty well, although after two weeks a lot of men are complaining and getting impatient. They want to go home to their families. Jared understands. He knows from Osric that Jensen's theater was shut down, and sometimes he worries about how his boyfriend is coping. He tries to keep the workers' spirits up and remind them of their goals, but he also doesn't want the complaining to turn into sabotage, so he asks Jim to tell the patrols to keep a special eye out for anyone trying to let the cops into the mill to end the strike.

Jensen has taken to writing Jared letters. They both trust Osric to pass any news accurately, but sometimes a man wants some privacy for his worries and his thoughts.

 _They shut it down because of you_ , Jensen writes, in the first letter Jared gets after Osric tells him about the Augustus. _Someone must have pegged you as the leader of the city strike, and found me and then the theater. Closing it down is a threat. Mr Morgan wants you to give up the strike and go back to work, so his theater can reopen. I don't. Do what you have to. Don't worry about me. The girls are taking care of me – Danny's hotel is still on strike but I think they're getting close to settling – and I think Mrs Morgan is on our side._

_I don't know what kind of privacy you can find in your mill, but if you get the chance, go somewhere no one will find you and stroke yourself off and think of me. Know that I'm stroking myself off and thinking of you._

_I love you. Don't give up._

It doesn't take long before everyone seems to know that Jared got an actual letter, and suddenly a lot of men want to write to their friends and families outside the mill. Osric has been passing messages back and forth, and Jared doesn't know why it never occurred to anyone else to send letters, but now suddenly men are ransacking the mill offices specifically for notepaper and pens and pencils. Jared assigns Matt the job of postmaster, to collect the letters and notes for the next runner and to distribute any that come back. It boosts the workers' spirits to be able to write to someone, although the letters that come back are not cheerful, and Jared hits on a theory as to why the police and the mill owner and the Council have been allowing food and other supplies inside.

“We're not working, right?” he tries to explain to Misha. “Because of the strike. So of course we're not getting paid. What's Victoria doing while you're in here? Jensen's theater was closed. It's a simple way to scare us, to make us worry about our families. But it's so easy for us to be here. We're getting food, we're getting changes of clothes, we've got mail coming and going. Osric's been sneaking in and out because he wants to, not because he has to.”

“It's a theory,” Misha concedes. “I don't know if it's a good one - “

“The cops could stop anyone trying to feed us. They could storm the place.”

“They've already tried,” Chad says. Jared hadn't realized he was listening. “We've got the doors blocked. They can't get in.”

“Let me get this straight,” Misha says, looking at Jared. “You're saying the police and the Council and the mill owner are actively working to _prolong_ the strike?” He raises an eyebrow. “Think about that for a minute.”

“I am,” Jared tells him. “There's no hurry to get us out of here. In two weeks we've gotten exactly one attempt to answer our grievances, and that was just 'If you give up now you can keep your jobs'. They're not making it hard for us to stay. And the longer the strike goes on, the more our families are going to beg us to give up. I've already heard some complaints. Nobody wants to end up on the street.”

“No one's getting evicted after two weeks,” Chad says. “And the Council's not that smart. I think the owner's just figuring out the least he can get away with giving us, and as soon as he knows that, he'll make an offer.”

“I don't agree with you,” Misha says. “The Council is that smart. They want this over as badly as we do.”

“Then why hasn't anyone tried to talk to us?” Jared asks. “They have to know if they gave us what we want, we'd reopen the mill and get back to work. Why do you think they haven't done that?”

“They're still figuring out how to get us out without damaging the mill or the machinery.” Misha waves an arm, indicating the rows and rows of looms and the giant rollers that carry newly-woven canvas up to the the cutting machines with their massive razor-sharp blades. “All of this is worth more than we are. The owner is trying to determine how much more he can pay us before he has to raise the price of his canvas, and how much more he can charge before the airship builders go somewhere else. It's accounting, Jared, it's not conspiracy.”

“I didn't say it was a conspiracy.” Jared stands and stretches. “I just said they're making it easy for us to strike because the longer we don't get paid, the harder it is for the people we support. All that pressure's internal. The owner and the Council get us to stop the strike on our own. They don't have to give us anything.”

“Hey, Jared,” Jim calls, walking over. “We found someone skulking around the place. He says he knows you.”

“Hi,” Jensen says, grinning.

“What are you doing here?” Jared demands.

“I wanted to see you. Osric told me how to get in. Did you get my letter?”

“Yeah. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything's fine. Well, the theater's still shut down, Mr Morgan is pressuring me to pressure you to give up so we can reopen, Danny's hotel is going to make a deal so they can all go back to work, there's a lot of bitching in the wards about how long the strike is going on, but other than that.”

“We've got things to take care of,” Misha says. “Come on, Chad, we should go.” He grabs Chad's arm and practically drags him off. Jim follows, but not before giving Jensen and Jared a considering once-over.

“What was that?” Jensen asks, when he and Jared are alone.

“Jim's probably thinking 'So _that's_ Jared's sexy boyfriend'.” Jared grins. “Let me show you around.”

He wants to show off what he and his fellow workers have done. He leads Jensen through the mill, introducing him to people, telling him how they've organized entertainment and cleaning rotations and classes and patrols and postal delivery, how they've set up procedures for submitting complaints and suggestions, how they're taking care of each other and making sure everyone has a say in anything that happens.

He tells Jensen about the way Victoria organized wives and girlfriends and mothers on the outside, so the men inside can still get food and fresh clothes. He says they're holding fast, ready to make a deal with the mill owner whenever he wants. He admits he was worried about spies, then he was worried about workers who might let the police into the mill to break the strike. He talks a lot, realizing only after they've been through most of the facility that he hasn't let Jensen say a thing.

“Sorry,” he says, as they walk past an office door. “I'm doing all the talking. I'm just really proud of what we're doing and how we're keeping ourselves occupied. How's the company dealing with the theater being closed? How are the girls? You said Danny's hotel is making a deal – is it a good one?”

“I think so.” Jensen jiggles the door handle, pushing the door open without taking his eyes off Jared's face. “I came out here because I miss you. I worry about you, even though Osric keeps telling me not to, but mostly I just miss you.” He pulls Jared inside the office. Jared takes the hint and kicks the door closed behind them.

“I miss you too. I had a hard time finding a private place after I got your letter, but I managed.” He can't help the grin that pulls at his lips as he remembers locking himself in the coat closet in the owner's office so he could undo his pants and jerk himself off as he imagined Jensen's mouth and hands and ass and cock.

“Good.” Now Jensen's eyes are on Jared's mouth. “No one's going to come looking for you, are they?”

“I hope not.” He takes Jensen's face in his hands and kisses him.

Jared has been trying very hard the past couple of weeks to not think about Jensen too much, especially how it feels to be separated from someone he's so used to being around. He's been trying very hard to not miss sleeping next to the best boyfriend, or kissing the perfect mouth, or having access to the most enticing body. He's been trying very hard to not think about how long it might be before they can talk to each other, or sit next to each other on their sagging sofa, or squish into the same booth in the pub across the street.

He never would have asked Jensen to come see him, but he's not sorry Jensen came.

Their kiss is like a dam breaking, and in short order they're pulling at each other's clothes and devouring each other's mouths. Jared wants to control the kiss, then he wants Jensen to, then he needs to breathe, then he wants to get Jensen's pants off but doesn't want to pull away from Jensen's amazing mouth. He is acutely aware of the fact that he has no idea how much longer it will be before he can go home.

“Wait,” he says, breathless and half-undressed and consumed with desire. He pushes Jensen back about a foot, far enough away so he can think. Jensen gapes like a fish, mouth opening and closing in a way that would be funny at any other time. “I could be here another week. Two. I don't... want to rush.” He steps away to lock the door. “There. Now no one can bother us.”

He wants Jensen desperately, and it's clear Jensen desperately wants him, but this may be the only chance they have to be together for weeks. So they peel each other's clothes off more slowly, take their time touching each other, and when Jared goes to his knees and takes Jensen's cock in his mouth, he tries very hard to tease without getting Jensen off.

“Saints above,” Jensen breathes over his head. “Your mouth.”

 _Your cock_ , Jared thinks, taking one last swipe with his tongue and sitting back on his heels. He looks up, grins, gets to his feet. “You came to see me,” he says, brushing his thumb across Jensen's lips. “Your choice. What do you want? I don't recommend the floor.”

Jensen huffs a laugh, says “I want you to fuck me. You can bend me over the desk.”

“If I'd known this was what you wanted, I'd have taken you to the owner's office. He has a sofa. It's very nice.”

“I'll come back another time so we can fuck on his furniture.” Jensen's face is very close. His tongue flicks out and licks at Jared's lips, and Jared lets himself get lost in the kiss for a while.

But his body wants more, so he maneuvers Jensen backwards until they hit the desk and pull away so Jensen can turn around. Jared presses up against him, rubbing against his ass, mouthing at his shoulders and the back of his neck.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” Jensen murmurs, and now it's Jared's turn to laugh.

Neither of them has any cream but they make do, and soon Jared is easing himself into Jensen's body, exhaling a long slow breath as he pushes himself in as deep as he can.

Jared has never cared what positions they arranged themselves into, how fast or how slow they moved, how deep he thrust or how deeply Jensen thrust into him. He has only ever cared that they were bound together, giving and receiving pleasure in equal degrees. He has only ever cared that he could turn Jensen on as much as Jensen could turn him on.

But this moment, with his hips pumping slowly, easily, his hands gripping Jensen's flesh, the sound of their breathing heavy in his ears – this moment is perfect. This moment is everything.

“Is this good?” Jared asks. “Is this – is this what you wanted?”

“Don't – hnn – yes, like that....”

“Dumb question?”

“So dumb.”

“Harder?” Jared leans down, drags his tongue up the ridge of Jensen's spine. “Fuck, I love your ass.” His hips pick up speed and Jensen moans in response.

Jared stays there for a little bit, thrusts fast and shallow, breath hot against Jensen's skin, before finally standing and flattening his hand at the base of Jensen's spine. He feels as if that gives him some leverage so he leans back slightly, hips pumping harder, faster. He bites his lip to stifle his groans, not wanting anyone to wander by, hear them, and try to investigate.

He doesn't want to come, but at the same time, he's ready, he's so very ready.

“Saints, Jared,” Jensen murmurs, voice breathless and heavy. He pushes back, burying Jared even deeper inside his body. “Finish me off.”

Jared leans forward again, just enough to reach down and close his fingers around Jensen's swollen cock. It jumps in his hand, hard and hot, and Jared strokes it with tight, fast twists of his wrist, trying to keep pace with the pumping of his hips. He doesn't think he can contain himself any longer, and then Jensen is biting back a cry and shooting over his hand.

That's just what Jared needs, and he's coming hard before Jensen is even finished.

“Saints and sinners,” he gasps, chest heaving. His head drops, forehead resting between Jensen's shoulderblades. “Fuck me.”

“Give me, uh, twenty minutes,” Jensen says, panting. Jared doesn't have breath to laugh.

“Is that what you had in mind?”

“Exactly.”

It might even hold them until the strike is over and Jared can go home.

Eventually he pulls out, stands back, pulls Jensen around, and kisses him lightly.

“We should get dressed,” Jensen says, so they do.

Jared shuts the office door behind them when they leave, and finishes his tour. Jensen wants to sneak back out the way he came in, apparently so he can tell Osric he did, and Jared lets him.

“Did you give him the tour?” Chad asks later. “Your boyfriend.”

“I showed him everything,” Jared says. He doesn't intend for that to sound like innuendo, although Chad clearly takes it that way, to judge from the snickering.

Two things happen in the next week. The first is that Jared's worry turns to fact when one of the patrols discovers a couple of guys trying to let some cops in through the loading dock. There's a scuffle, the cops are pushed out, and Jared summarily expels the two workers from the mill.

“Go home and admit to your wives you were weak,” he tells them, and if they get a little bruised and bloody when they leave, well, that's what happens when you betray the strike.

He lets it get around the mill that two men tried to break the strike, were caught, and were beaten up and kicked out. Chad responds to that bit of news by coming down from the roof where he's been watching the police still surrounding the place so he can report that they seem to be gearing up for something. The cops have already tried (and failed) three times to retake the mill, and Chad isn't sure what makes them think attempt number four will be successful. Jared tells the millworkers to be prepared anyway.

But then the second thing happens – a representative for the mill owner comes back with an actual offer, and Jared and Misha meet with him just outside the front doors. The offer doesn't address most of their grievances, and Jared sends the man off without bothering to consult with anyone. He's in charge and he can make unilateral decisions if he thinks they're warranted.

But the next day the man comes back, this time with the owner himself, offering a new contract with slightly fewer hours and a slightly higher wage for those hours, if everyone will just go back to work. Jared insists on a fair process for men who are injured on the job to seek some kind of compensation for lost time, and if the owner won't do that, he needs to fix up the machinery and maintain it better.

“This is the best we're going to do,” Misha whispers. “We accomplished something in three weeks. We need to take this.”

“You'll maintain the machinery to a higher standard,” Jared repeats to the owner. “A lot of the looms are in shit shape, and when they break, we get hurt and you lose hours. The place is a sweatbox in the summer and an icebox in the winter. We can't work like that. If we don't get a better facility we don't go back to work.”

“Fine,” the owner snaps. He holds out a sheet of paper, and his representative offers a pen. Jared skims the paper – it sets out the new hours and wages – takes the pen, and gestures for Misha to turn around. He slaps the paper against Misha's back and scribbles an addendum about facility maintenance.

“Now go back to work,” the police chief says. He's been standing off to the side, watching the dealmaking with anticipation. Jared knows he's just waiting for someone to put a foot wrong so he can bust some heads.

“Add that and bring a new contract,” Jared tells the owner. “We'll get back to work _after_ we sign it.”

The representative whispers something in the owner's ear. The police chief fingers his airgun. Jared tries not to fidget.

The owner turns and sweeps off, followed by the representative and the police chief, who starts yelling at the cops still standing around that it's all over.

“Did we do it?” Jared asks Misha, not quite sure he believes it.

“We did it.” Misha's eyes are bright. He grins fit to split his face, grabs Jared in a bear hug, and gives him a smacking kiss on the cheek.

 _Saints and sinners_ , Jared thinks. _We fucking did it. We held the owner accountable and got something for ourselves._

But the strikers can't leave, not yet. They'll sit one last night in the mill to guard it and their futures. Tomorrow they'll go back to work, and tomorrow night they'll go home.

The Great Mendeley Strike, as it becomes known, is somewhat of a success, if not an entirely unqualified one. Legislation is passed to ease some of the pains of labor – a limit is put on the number of hours a person can be made to work in a week, and the legal age of employment is raised from thirteen to fifteen. Many of the striking workers earn a slight wage increase in return for going back to their jobs. Steam trams resume their routes, factories and mills reopen, chambermaids pick up their brooms and brushes, men working the docks and the train depot and the airship fields go back to hauling crates and luggage and the many, many things that are delivered into and out of the city, the many, many things those factories and mills are once again producing.

There are few concessions made to improve working conditions, and there is still little recourse for men and women who are hurt on the job. There are no attempts to equalize wages between men and women, and few resources for immigrants to prevent them from being taken advantage of.

Jared loses his job, as do Misha and Chad and a not-insignificant number of millworkers. Jensen is pissed, but Jared is more sanguine.

“I knew it might happen,” he tells Jensen. “It was a risk I was willing to take. I mean, you're still managing the theater, I'll find something, we won't starve.”

The Augustus was allowed to reopen the day after the millworkers ended their strike, and even though the closure was indirectly Jensen's fault, Mr Morgan let him keep his job. The fact that Jared lost his might not have hurt.

Jared has already heard rumors that the ringleaders of the strike are on a list and he might have a near-impossible time finding someone willing to employ him. He knew that was a risk too, but he has faith in his ability to make people like him, listen to him, and help him get what he wants.

Isn't that how the strike was accomplished?

The millworkers are making slightly better money and working slightly less punishing hours, and still agitating for better conditions and more recourse against their inevitable mistreatment. The girls in the garment factories are now a formidable bloc, putting all the pressure they can on the factory owners and even the Council to try and improve their lives. Working men and women all over the city can look back at the strike and know what they can accomplish if they organize. They know what kind of power they have, and Jared feels confident in his assumption that they'll keep using it.

And if they need a push? Well, he's available. He did it once, he can do it again.

He's still unemployed and probably unemployable, and he's no longer sure if he wants a Council seat, but he accomplished this one thing. He convinced people to put down their tools, to shut off their machines, and to walk out on their jobs with the end goal of getting something more for themselves. He helped bring the city to a screeching, if short-lived, halt – he got the working class to speak up, and he made the upper class listen.

And as far as he's concerned, that end result, and the probability that it isn't actually the end, makes losing his job worth it. He got the tide to rise, and everyone who matters to him to rise up with it.

**Author's Note:**

> Short and heartfelt thanks:  
> dear_tiger for a. telling me I was a good enough writer to not need a beta (very kind, but also very wrong), and b. betaing anyway  
> beelikej for her fabulous art (see the airship? :D ) and for being completely lovely to work with  
> wendy for modding, always  
> and "Carnival Row" (for the city) and the Nanowrimo forums (for distracting me enough to let this idea take hold)
> 
> And of course there's an [author's note](https://tsuki-no-bara.livejournal.com/2000625.html), because if I didn't write one I wouldn't be me.


End file.
